Splicing
by Lynse
Summary: The Evil Leaper Project receives an odd visitor calling himself Doctor John Smith. He offers to help them realize the goals of their time travel experiment—-but who exactly is he, and what is he really doing? Crossover with Doctor Who, Splintering inset
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, this is a little piece of work that fits directly into my story, _Splintering_, in between chapters 12 and 13, and it is written for the interested Questfan who admitted to being curious and wanting to know more. Although this tale is separate because it is a story in and of itself, it will not make a whole lot of sense unless _Patchwork_ and the first twelve chapters of _Splintering_ are read first. That said, this is a crossover with Doctor Who, set prior to _Deliver Us from Evil_ for the Evil Leaper Project and post _Blink_ for the Doctor.

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and I make no money from this work of fiction!_

* * *

The Doctor set the time circuits and entered the spatial coordinates, dashing round and round the console as he readied himself for take-off, hitting buttons and twisting dials and flicking switches as necessary—and some that he wasn't entirely sure really _were_ necessary, anymore, but that he used anyway, just for good measure—before pulling the one lever to set it all into action. He grinned as the time rotor started, gripping the controls for an instant more before racing around to check on something else. Shields—check. Safety feature 1021—appropriately disabled. Where was the fun in discovering another world or another time if you were automatically scheduled to land on a _Sunday_? Or at least whatever the planet's equivalent of a Sunday was. That was the only thing he could ever say against the old Type 40s, really. He could've said a thing or two to the designers who, in their infinite wisdom, had thought that _that_ was appropriate. Nonsensical, really. But everything else seemed to be right on.

Except for the chronon stabilization loop fixture. Thing kept slipping on him, and no amount of hammering would make it stay. Still, one good bang now and then did _help_. Well, there was that and the chameleon circuit, but he was fond of her shape now. Well, that, and one of the times he'd tried to fix it, with the way events had built up, he'd ended up regenerating. But even if it made for a rougher flight, getting out of here was tricky anyway. Getting out of a pocket was always tricky. But, well, he enjoyed a challenge. Relished one, in fact.

One of the lights caught his eye. He watched the flickering sequence, grinned, and acted accordingly. The TARDIS lurched to one side, and he spun around the console to check the stabilizers. Still functioning. Well, the essential ones, at any rate. Looked like he'd nicked a periphery one coming out of the conjunction point of the pocket. Ah, well, the TARDIS was compensating, and it wasn't anything he couldn't fix when he landed. He was sure he had the parts. Somewhere.

A few minutes later, the time rotor ground to a halt. The Doctor left the TARDIS without his coat, figuring he didn't need his friendly welcoming committee from the Project trying to go through his pockets, even if he didn't think they'd get very far and only manage to peel off the top layer. He wasn't quite sure what he was getting into, to be perfectly honest. All his information was second-hand, after all. Well, technically, most of it was _third_-hand. But the point still stood. Then again, with him, he never really knew what he was getting into, did he? That was part of the fun.

The Doctor grinned, pulling the door tightly shut behind him. Sure, there was a lot at stake. Fate of a parallel. Well, two parallels. His other self would splinter, and the splintering itself would create _quite_ a mess that could very easily affect other timelines, which would put a whole lot more on his plate, because if _he_ didn't deal with it, something else would, and he knew he wouldn't _like_ how anything else would deal with it. So, yes. Mounds of pressure. One slip-up, and he'd lose everything; he didn't get a second chance.

But he knew what he had to do. How hard could it be, really? All the pieces were there. He just had to put them together. Correctly. And preferably quickly, if that were possible, since technically he _was _racing the clock, more or less, except with the conversion rate, he still had plenty of time—more than a couple of weeks, linearly, from this here and now. But if he fell within that deadline—whatever was left of the three point six hours Ziggy had given them back at the Project, the time until the parallel which he was currently occupying would terminate—and he succeeded, it wouldn't really matter how long it took him, since the end result would be the same. Not that he expected it _would_ take him more than a week, at a stretch, even when it did involve working his way into the heart of the other Project. He could be persuasive when he needed to be, and he really didn't fancy spending so much time in one place. Still. He loved a good challenge, and he worked so well under pressure.

He reached into his breast pocket and found the psychic paper. Step one: infiltration. Always a good step, that one. And it determined so much. It was rather like a first impression. If it went well, everything would go well. If it didn't, he'd have a lot more trouble sorting everything out. He'd still sort it, of course. It would just take a brilliantly clever idea on his part to pull it off, generally one thought up on the spur of the moment. Bit trying, those moments before he came up with that immensely clever idea, but always so much more fun.

Still grinning like a loon, the Doctor started off towards what the good people at Project Quantum Leap had dubbed the Evil Leaper Project.

* * *

Alia had long since had second thoughts about joining this experiment, appealing as it had been at first. She cursed her naivety. She knew what they planned to do now, what all the training had been for. Not just to prepare her for the stresses of time travel, as they'd claimed. To break her, to bend her to their will, so that she would do what they wanted her to.

She would, though. She had to. She didn't have a choice.

She'd as good as signed her soul away the minute she'd signed that contract.

A deal with the devil….

The Project was well underway, but they'd run up against an unsolvable problem, and it was holding them back, stopping them from realizing their power over time. They'd been trying to reverse engineer the handlink they'd recovered—the 1945 Anomaly, as she'd secretly begun calling it. She hadn't been around when they'd found it, or even when they'd realized what it was and what it meant, so she didn't know its story. All she _did _know was that they were still running trials, trying to dissect it without ruining its components, fitting pieces together to format their own handlink, one that was compatible with Lothos.

Lothos.

Alia shivered. She stopped thinking about it. About _him_. It was better that way. She had to occupy her thoughts in other ways. She'd be punished if she disobeyed. She didn't want to be punished.

Zoey had convinced Lothos that she had potential.

She still had to be grateful for that. Potential meant that she wasn't expendable. Yet. If she lived up to it.

Her rest time would be finished soon. They'd run their tests, and Zoey would take her out to the shooting range again. Not as a friend. At best, as a companion. But she was there as a supervisor, as an observer, a reporter, an assessor, judge, evaluator—a constant critic. They didn't trust her. They didn't trust anyone. She doubted if they trusted each other. But that didn't matter to them; they weren't building their precious experiment on trust. They were building it on fear, on greed, on evil. Pure, manipulative, devious, cunning evil.

The worst part was, she accepted it. And she chose it, time and again. And she feared she always would. The instinct of self-preservation was too strong, too raw. Them, or her. And she always chose herself.

As much as she hated to admit it, she doubted that that would ever—could ever—change.

* * *

"Doctor John Smith," the Doctor said, flashing the psychic paper at the guard. "Scientific adviser." He paused. "I was…informed of the situation. Through my…connections."

"Sir, I do not—"

"Oh, no, you _do_," the Doctor interrupted, his voice cold. "Believe me. You do. You don't _really_ think that you lot can figure this out without someone with experience, do you?"

"E-experience?" the guard stuttered.

"Oh yes."

"In what?"

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Do you _really_ think that I need to answer that question?"

The guard swallowed. "I trust you know where to go, sir?" he asked.

"I've a vague idea, yes." The guard buzzed him through, and the Doctor grinned. "Brilliant. Thank you."

The Evil Leaper Project had some basic similarities to Project Quantum Leap. Security being one, and guards who could be fooled with psychic paper being another. But, more to the point, the Evil Leaper Project was also secreted away. Not in some stretch of desert land in New Mexico, true, but just as easily hidden from passing prying eyes. But, the Evil Leaper Project was privately funded. True, the Doctor suspected a good portion of those funds were raised illegally, through scams and swindles and stock market fraud and whatnot, but he wasn't here to correct that. Unfortunate, really. This project probably had a steadier cash flow than Sam's project.

Even so, there was clearly some corner cutting going on—but not in the security department. He'd spotted no fewer than ten hidden cameras on his way into the building, and he hadn't been able to peg a definitive blind spot inside yet. Because he wasn't certain which level the computer, Lothos, would be located on—and thus where they'd be trying to sync the handlink—he took the stairs. He could always poke around each level at his leisure and insist that he had to inspect their handiwork. Though he _did_ feel they'd be doing some checking up on him themselves, seeing how paranoid they were bound to be. Which made perfect sense, considering what they were doing. Or trying to do. Or would be doing. He wasn't entirely sure where he was in the creation of the Project, but he certainly wasn't right at the beginning. They'd had that handlink a while now.

He didn't have to be deep in the Project to realize that. For one, they'd created Lothos, Ziggy's evil counterpart. And he knew they had, because otherwise their security would not be so tight. And he would've encountered a few more questions when he first came in. Still. Funny name, Lothos. It seemed like a corruption of logos. A corruption of logic, of fact, of reason, or the means of displaying it—fitting for a computer. A corruption by a certain loathing, perhaps, though the Doctor couldn't guess what, exactly, it would be a loathing _of_. Society, perhaps. Politics. Some form of religion, even if it was just a set of principles. Something along those lines. Imagination was not something the Doctor associated with anyone—or anything—he met who was set on destroying the world, whichever one it happened to be.

But, to build Lothos and have him functioning properly, controlling everything that went on in the Project and accessing data from the last fifty or so years and whatnot, they would have needed to work out the basic functions of the handlink and some of the intermediate connections. But what _he_ was concerned about was the more complex workings that were hidden beneath simpler functions and within delicate circuitry. There was one underlying function in particular that he was going to keep from their attention. One that was distinctly related to the direct connections between the leaper and the parallel-hybrid computer rather than the roundabout ones through the designated observer.

He may have arrived too late to push them past the basics, but not when it came to guiding their extrapolation of the higher functions.

The Doctor stopped on level ten, one corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. They were more similar to Project Quantum Leap than they knew. He could hear the hum of the machinery, the high-pitched frequencies so many humans could block out so easily. And he could hear voices. They were, as he'd suspected, watching him. They'd been watching him since he'd come in. He supposed he was lucky that they'd figured they were better off seeing exactly how much he knew and if he could be of any help to them before they threw him in their equivalent of the Waiting Room.

Normally, he'd walk in grinning, acting like he owned the place. But that was probably not the best strategy now, and he had more than enough sense to recognize that and realize that, for his purposes, ignoring that fact wouldn't make what he had to do any easier. Pausing at the door to the tenth level belowground just long enough to school his features into a neutral expression, he left the stairwell behind and headed towards the Control Room.

* * *

"He's not exactly hard on the eyes, is he?" Zoey mused, watching the video feed.

"He's lying through his teeth," Thames pointed out shortly. "Lothos can't find a trace of him in any unofficial records in either the UK or the US, let alone in the official ones."

Zoey chuckled. "All the better, isn't it? I could have so much fun finding out how he got past that first guard."

"I get to deal with _him_," Thames cut in.

Zoey spared him a quick glance. "Of course, darling. We can't let the instruments in the Holding Chamber get rusty, and it would set such a good example. We can even see how he fairs on a test run if you like, once you're finished." She looked back at the screen with a sly grin. "But _this_ one is all mine. So fit. Probably quite flexible. And agile. Just _look_ at his—"

"Aren't you supposed to be with Alia? She's your special protégée, isn't she?" Thames groused, not caring that he was interrupting.

"Oh, never mind her. Disruption to schedule is always more effective in training them."

"You mean variable-interval scheduling."

"I don't care what it's _called_, so long as it's effective." She straightened up. "Do let our new plaything in, Lothos. I'd rather like to see how much he knows."

"And if it's too much?"

Zoey glanced at Thames. "I'll take great pleasure in ripping his head off so that he can't share his knowledge. Once we find out how he acquired it, of course. I imagine that will result in several splendid days examining some of the finer points of a few choice instruments we have on hand."

Thames grinned. "And if he's making everything up?"

"He can't be making everything up," Zoey replied. "He _did_ manage to find us. But if he's just here to glean information from us, oh, I'll have _such_ fun." She shot a pointed look at Thames. "Why don't you run off and attend to the little problem at the gate?"

Thames snorted. "He'll have to be pretty dim not to see that your honey's laced with vinegar." He shook his head, but did as Zoey asked. Not because she'd asked—which was, for her, a rarity, even if it was simply a command phrased as a question, like this was—but because he knew Lothos favoured her. And he knew what crossing Lothos would mean. And, frankly, he'd rather keep all his internal organs right where they were, thank you very much.

The door nearest Zoey slid open to reveal the self-proclaimed Dr. John Smith before Thames had cleared out of another doorway, but she didn't let any of the annoyance show on her face. Instead, she looked their…_guest_…up and down before smiling her approval. "So much better in person," she murmured appreciatively.

Dr. Smith cleared his throat, and she looked up to his face to meet his gaze. "Shall I assume that you've been informed as to who I am," he asked, "or shall I tell you anyhow?"

"Oh, it's always better to hear things first hand," Zoey replied, letting her gaze wander downwards again. Her smile grew as the feet shuffled. The man was _nervous_. Oh, this would be a positive _delight_.

"Doctor John Smith," he said, making a point of sticking out his hand.

She looked at it, and then met his eyes. "Of?" she asked bluntly.

"Shall I show you my identification, then?" Dr. Smith asked, withdrawing his hand and reaching into his breast pocket.

"Not yet." Zoey smiled as the hand faltered. She suspected that he had multiple papers—all false, of course—and was waiting for a cue from her to figure out which to use. A cue she wasn't about to give him. "It's only a simple question."

"It seems that way, doesn't it?" Dr. Smith agreed. His stance shifted, signs of nervousness gone, and he leaned nonchalantly against a piece of highly specialized equipment whose purpose she couldn't recall at the moment and didn't really care one whit about. "But, really, when you think about it, it's not. Of what, you ask? Everything, I answer. Anything. Because, when it comes down to it, I am. Bits and pieces of most anything I come across—some of it's bound to make an impression, you see, and it has. Because I'm not from any company. I'm not beholden to anyone. I am who I am, and sometimes that's more what you make of me than what I've made of myself." He paused, then added, quietly, "For as long as I keep to that impression of yours, that is."

Suitably evasive, Zoey noted. Their trial leapers could learn a thing or two from him. Not that anyone they'd tried leaping had survived so far. But it didn't matter, really. The end negated the means. There were more things to tweak, that was all. Something not yet deciphered in that infernal handlink, or something interpreted incorrectly. They would get there in the end, no matter what it took.

"Then enlighten me," Zoey drawled. "What _is_ my impression of you, pray tell?"

Dr. Smith grinned. "Right now, let's say _scientist_. A very, very clever scientist. Brilliant, in fact. Genius, even, if you don't think that's too much."

Zoey laughed. "Darling, you're going to have to do better than _that_."

"No, I don't think I do," Dr. Smith corrected. He nodded to the schematics of the handlink Thames had been going over with the man who had, until very recently, been their head scientific adviser—though they'd managed, in the weeks leading up to his death, to get much more out of him than just advising. "Right there," Dr. Smith continued, "you've got a set of drawings representing a remote terminal to a central unit, but since those look a bit unclear, I'd say you haven't figured it all out yet—haven't pinned down what does what, why this is here, and what changes if you move it there, that sort of thing—and therefore you're working off a prototype of something _you_ didn't invent, meaning that you're reverse engineering a nice complex example of someone else's hard work, am I right?"

"That is correct."

Dr. Smith looked up towards the speakers. "You've been awfully quiet until now." He paused, very briefly, before adding, more loudly, "So you're the AI, then? Parallel-hybrid, I'm assuming?"

"To say that Lothos is merely an artificial intelligence unit is degrading," Zoey broke in, knowing how quick Lothos was to anger and not _quite_ ready to lose the good view yet. Besides, Dr. Smith intrigued her, and he clearly knew things. He could be useful.

"You understate the feat I represent," Lothos agreed.

Zoey could sense the undercurrent in the tone, but she doubted Dr. Smith would pick up on it. Graciously deciding that she'd better speak up before Dr. Smith put his foot in it, she put in, "You've surely not seen something as astounding before. In your…previous work." Perhaps he would let something slip.

"Well," Dr. Smith admitted, looking thoughtful, "I _suppose_ you could say that. Though it depends on your definition of before, really. All relative, that. Still. Considering the year, I'll have to say that you _are _the most impressive feat of humanity I've come across. Linearly speaking. For now, at least. Comparatively, and all things considered, of course."

Zoey would have puzzled over Dr. Smith's hidden meaning, for she knew evasion and partial lies and astounding, if blatantly careless and foolish, use of ambiguity when she heard it, but she was more interested in Lothos's reaction. He was in a remarkably good mood, all things considered. He didn't aim to kill, either instantly or slowly and fittingly painfully. Still, Dr. Smith leaped backwards, letting out a yelp, just managing to avoid the bolt of electricity sent at him. He was quick, Zoey noted. Nimble. She couldn't suppress a smile. It gave credence to her earlier musings.

"Oi," Dr. Smith said, lifting one foot as if to check for burns. "For humanity now, yes, you _are_ an impressive feat of engineering ingenuity, as I've said, but you've got to know that someone's bound to top it sometime. That's all I meant."

"Well, if you're such a _brilliantly clever_ scientist," Zoey mused coyly, "then _do_ tell us how to perfect our work."

Dr. Smith withdrew a pair of thick-rimmed glasses from his pocket. Balancing them on his nose, he walked over to get a closer look at the papers. He studied them for a moment and then looked up at her. "And what do I get out of it?"

Zoey moved closer, leaning in to speak directly into his ear. "I'll personally make sure," she said, very slowly and deliberately, one hand creeping up his arm and around to the opposite shoulder, "that you have a different fate than our last scientific adviser."

Dr. Smith pulled away before she could tighten her hold. "Doesn't sound like much," he countered.

"Dr. Terrance Fletcher," Zoey informed him coldly, tired of playing games, at least for the moment, "burned—very painfully, judging by the screams—from the inside out after he found himself testing his supposedly foolproof experiment. Unless you would care to be the subject of a second trial, I would suggest that you take my offer."

"Funny," Dr. Smith said, slowly pulling his glasses off of his face and pocketing them again, "but you didn't ask me why I came here."

"Oh, but that doesn't matter now, does it? You're here, and you clearly know something. And we get to milk that pretty little mind of yours for all it's worth." Zoey smiled. "Lothos, seal the doors."

* * *

A/N: My characterization will likely be a bit off, so I'm accepting suggestions and in the meantime claiming that these are the QL characters before they ever appear onscreen, so it's perfectly acceptable that they're a bit different. Also, if I have my way, Lothos is not going to get another line in this entire story. As for the Doctor, well, he will probably be making some comments that refer to _Splintering_ even when he knows very well that none of the QL characters will have a clue what he's on about, so if you don't remember the story very well, it may not be a bad idea to reread it. Or you could just skim over and ignore those parts, I suppose; it may not make much of a difference. It's a bit hard to say at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'd thought you weren't coming," Alia said when Zoey entered the room.

"You thought nothing of the sort, darling," Zoey shot back. "You were _praying_ that I wasn't coming back. And then, wisely, you checked yourself." She leaned in closer. "Listen to me, Alia—listen good and well. I have invested too much in you to dispose of you now without damage to my own reputation, but you'll rot in hell before I'll let you drag me down with you."

Alia swallowed her own retort. As much as it felt like it, she knew this wasn't hell. Hell was worse. They hadn't put her through it, not yet. "Is Dr. Fletcher ready for the trial?" she asked instead.

Zoey regarded her with a cold glare. "My dear Alia, Dr. Fletcher was a fool to think that _anyone_ was ready for his trial."

So he was dead. By his own hand, the reports would say. A tragic accident in a failed test. At least it wasn't her. Perhaps now she would be bumped to the bottom of the list, and her neck wouldn't be on the line, and she wouldn't be the next…casualty. "Is Dr. Warren taking charge, then?"

"Don't concern yourself about it."

"But—"

"I said, _don't concern yourself about it_." Zoey glared at her. "You know what happens when you concern yourself with things that are best left to others."

The Holding Chamber.

Last time, she hadn't bitten her tongue a second time.

She tried not to remember that week.

"You're getting too comfortable, Alia," Zoey announced. "Thames is going to take you for some hands-on experience."

"Why not you?" Alia asked before she could stop herself. Trying to cover up the bitterness in her voice, she added, "You're my partner."

"Precisely. And you're used to me. Generally, that's the idea, but we have to prepare, Alia. You'll be finding yourself in uncomfortable situations unless we can make those situations comfortable. And so we will. Preparing you for unexpected changes is simply one way of doing that." Zoey smiled, adding, "And I have other business to attend to."

Alia knew Zoey expected her to ask, and it was all she could do to suppress her thoughts. But she knew that smile of Zoey's. She couldn't push away the memory of that last time she'd seen that particular smile. She hoped that whatever Zoey had in mind didn't involve her.

* * *

Target practice. It was easiest to think about it as target practice. It was just a can lined up on a fence. Or maybe more like shooting skeet, since the target was moving. But that's all it was. A target. Just…a target. Inanimate object. No thoughts, no feelings. Not human.

"Hurry it up," Thames ordered, giving Alia a push. She stumbled a bit, regained her balance, and took aim. Fired.

She couldn't block out the howling, but she managed not to wince.

"You didn't shoot to kill," Thames said bluntly.

She had to distance herself from this. The hand that held the gun, the finger that pulled the trigger, wasn't her own. It was someone else's, someone who was trying to keep her from a similar fate, to keep her from being the bear in the cage. Alia turned to face Thames, replying blandly, "I must need more practice."

In response, Thames handed her a knife. "We'll make sure he's around long enough for you to practice then."

He was right. A quick shot to the heart would have put it out of it misery. Like a rabid dog. She'd meant to try to extend its life. All she'd caused was pain. She wasn't being merciful; she was being cruel.

She returned the gun to the table and weighed the knife in her hand. It was familiar, that weight. She'd used it before. She was getting better at using it. But…not good enough to make a death quick and painless. She would have to cause more pain before she could send it into blissful oblivion.

She grazed the side the first time, when it moved away, stumbling, staggering from one side of the pen to the other. She tried three more times, missing once, but two struck their mark. She reached for the gun again, and Thames didn't protest as she'd thought he might. She took aim. She was shooting a magpie. A gopher, perhaps. A beaver, weasel, racoon, groundhog, pigeon—no, she wasn't shooting a pest. She was shooting a prize. Not for her, but for them. A deer, then. Common enough, but still a prize.

It was a clean shot.

"Not bad," Thames admitted. "You are shaping up, Alia. You might get it on your first shot next time."

She hoped there wouldn't be a next time, but knew there likely would. This wasn't the first. But perhaps, next time, she wouldn't have to draw out the suffering. "Hopefully," she agreed. She replaced the gun, turning away from the pen that housed the remains.

Thames caught her arm. "Practice isn't over, sweetheart," he reminded her. "You have to set up the body."

She was being the taught the art of manipulation, both in terms of words and situation. She had to teach herself to conceal her thoughts, from them—and herself. She had to act, spinning a flawless web of deception and lies. Thames wasn't one to teach her that; that was Zoey's territory. Zoey taught her most everything. Thames only stepped in, now and again, to unnerve her.

It still worked.

"It's often better for you to pull me back first, isn't it?" Alia responded dully. "It's more distressing to find yourself with the weapon in your hands and the body at your feet with no memory of what had happened. Isn't that your objective?"

"It depends on the circumstances."

There was no further discussion, no explanation. She shouldn't have expected one. Alia took a slow breath. She couldn't show her weakness, not if she wanted to survive. Steadying herself, she turned back to the body and walked, as calmly as she could, towards the wide, blank eyes of the guard she had been instructed to murder.

It had been an easier task than when she'd had to snap the neck of the puppy they'd given her to raise on her first day here, after she'd nurtured it for a few loving months.

She wasn't sure she wanted to know what that said about her.

* * *

The Doctor groaned. His head ached like it hadn't since that time on Brandor 3. Or had that happened on Palicoria? Well. Didn't matter, really. It was just as painful now. Perhaps a bit more so, seeing as he'd been outwitted by a human. Admittedly a human with a super computer on her side which had very good aim, but a human nonetheless.

The Doctor shelved his embarrassment and instead turned his attentions to inspecting his body. Eyes, two, both fully functional. One undamaged nose, a pair of excellent ears that were unfortunately picking up on an exceedingly annoying high pitched whine—worse than having a mosquito that couldn't be swatted, let alone being anywhere near the nilikytes of Varaxas—and ten fingers and toes each, the former throbbing slightly and just a bit itchy. Slightly burnt, he remembered, but healing a good deal more quickly than they should have been, even for him. He wondered what they'd given him. And how long he'd been out.

However long it had been, it was long enough for them to secure him tightly to some sort of rack. Well, tightly in terms of its ability to reduce circulation, not in terms of him actually being secured. Still. While he'd been dodging the electrical shots sent at him by the computer, the woman had knocked him out. He wasn't entirely sure _how_—something he wouldn't admit to anyone else, but in the highly unlikely event that the topic ever came up, he intended to claim, rightly so, that his attention had been otherwise occupied, and would proceed to launch into a highly detailed explanation of what, exactly, had so consumed his attention, until whoever was asking gave up all hope of getting a straight answer and broke in to change the subject. Still, considering he had essentially been electrocuted, more than once, he was lucky that both hearts were still working.

Vaguely wondering what exactly they did with people whom they _didn't_ perceive as useful and thinking that he had a rather good idea of that anyhow, the Doctor wriggled his way out of his restraints. It took longer than he would have liked; they had a few complexities in there he hadn't seen on Earth since, oh, would've been sometime in the 1500s. Or was that 1300s? 1400s? No, earlier. Definitely earlier. It had been the twelfth century, he remembered. He'd been—well, it didn't matter what he'd been doing; he'd never had a chance to properly explain what he was doing there before they'd hauled him off anyhow. He was rather fortunate that Peri had had the good sense, for once, not to rush after him or he would've had to get her out, too, and that would have taken _much_ longer. Though perhaps she hadn't come because she hadn't known where to go. But no matter. He hadn't been gone long. It had only been, oh, maybe six hours? She'd been fine. Furious at him and no doubt worried sick, but unharmed. Perhaps a bit hungry, a tad thirsty. He hadn't asked. Though, judging by her reactions to the marketplace they'd passed through earlier, probably both, if she'd gotten over her nausea.

The Doctor examined his cell. He'd been in worse. This one was clean and, in comparison to some things he'd seen in the past, exceedingly boring. It was very bright, so a bit hard on the eyes, and that annoying hum hadn't stopped, but he could stand up in it. That was probably intended so that whoever had strapped him in could stand up, but it worked well for him anyway. Still. He felt like he was trapped in a large cylinder. Perhaps he was, more or less. Those with inferior eyes would certainly have failed to notice the door outline in the wall, but he saw his way out.

Thing is, he wasn't sure if he should take it.

It all seemed a bit…easy.

And he'd already proven that he was clever.

And they'd already proven that they had no scruples.

And they were watching him. From more than one angle. Watching, and waiting. Patiently. _Playing_ with him. Like cats with a mouse.

Fortunately, he'd met a very smart mouse once—well, several, actually—and he knew that the cats could be outwitted at their own game.

With patience. And practice. Though, a good deal of good luck never hurt.

Of course, sometimes it was more fun to play _into _the trap for a bit, just so that he could get more information. The Doctor strolled over to the door and pushed. It didn't budge. Shrugging, he started feeling for the sensor, trying to find to find some way to trigger it. He frowned. "Come on," he muttered. "Not like I've never escaped without using my sonic screwdriver." Quick and appealing as that option would be, he had no amount of trust in the people here and was not about to reveal a highly sophisticated and exceedingly useful tool like his sonic screwdriver. At least, not until he had to.

"I believe you'll find, Dr. Smith, that Lothos has sealed the doors quite effectively."

The Doctor sighed. "I don't like talking to people I can't see," he warned her, recognizing the voice of the woman who'd knock—_temporarily indisposed_ him. "And, don't get me wrong, I absolutely love games, but I've played a fair few that I don't like, all too often more than once, and I don't care to finish this one of yours."

"Oh, it's only a simple round of twenty questions."

The Doctor looked around, trying to pinpoint the speakers. "Well, you didn't come to consciousness strapped into the hot seat," he shot back.

"You're a very elaborate liar," the woman continued. "Lothos never got a clear view of your documents, but I think you know that, don't you? They may have been good enough to convince the guard, but I can assure you that you need to build a better paper trail than _that_ to throw us off."

"So what am I here for?" the Doctor challenged. "Are you leaving me to rot for being a bit careless? Oh, that's imaginative."

A laugh. "Oh, no, darling. You're merely in there for _observation_." There was a pause, then, "And I must say, you are quite limber."

"Bit more than I used to be, yeah," the Doctor agreed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the rack. "Though, that was more the sort of thing I picked up off Ehrich Weiss." He paused, then added, "But, I've got to ask—what exactly do you think you can gain by keeping me here?"

"Don't you think we should start with introductions? You're being terribly impolite."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Seems to come with the face. But, fine. We'll do this properly, shall we? I'm the Doctor, and you are?"

"You can call me Zoey."

"Nice to meet you, Zoey. I'd shake your hand, but I seem to still be talking to thin air, and I don't like that."

"I'm afraid it's not a matter of _likes_."

"Then what is it a matter of?"

"How exactly did you find us, _Doctor_?"

"I have my connections," the Doctor replied shortly. "Just as you have yours."

"Oh, I expect my connections are a bit more extensive than yours."

"I wouldn't bet on it," the Doctor retorted. He uncrossed his arms and leaned back, looking upward. "I'm well-connected, me. And I've picked up a fair bit of knowledge over the years."

"You may have picked up knowledge, but you don't appear to have picked up any sense."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "You," he stated firmly, "are just worried, yes? Because I don't show up in your system. I don't show up in any systems. No companies, no affiliations. Oh, but that's because it's a fake name, isn't it? So you run a description. But you can't find me. And, well, someone who can identify a handlink from a few rough sketches can't be no one, can he? So you—"

"What did you say?" Zoey interrupted.

"What? Where about?" The Doctor thought for a moment. "Well, you'd figured John Smith wasn't really my name, hadn't you?"

"_About the handlink_."

"Well, why not be more specific if you knew what you wanted me to repeat?" The Doctor shrugged. "Just that. It's a handlink. All I said."

"And what _is_ a handlink?"

"Well, I expect you know that." The Doctor grinned. "You're a bit too far along not to know that. And you don't need me telling you things you already know, do you? Shouldn't think so."

"I don't like playing games, Doctor."

"Funny," the Doctor returned lightly. "You seemed to like this one earlier. Though, lately, you seem to asking all the questions, so I expect it's _my_ turn now. How long have you been doing this? Because it _looks_ like it's been a while. A rather long while. For…some of you. Because the idea was there, and you had it right in front of you, an example of success, but you didn't know how to realize that idea, did you? And it's been a long road, all that dodgy funding, murdering to keep your secrets, covering up your…_mistakes_. Because you can't get it quite right, can you? And you don't want to throw your prizes in until it is right, because they're too valuable, aren't they, your little test subjects? And you just keep right on training them, don't you? Like lab rats. Only, when they push the lever, they don't always get rewarded, do they? But they keep pushing it, because they think there's a chance, because there used to be a chance, once. Only now there's not, and they're not ready to think that maybe things have changed, because there's always that elusive _chance_. A chance for freedom. For redemption." The Doctor paused. "Though, in your case, might be a bit more for retribution. Because you've been here since the start, haven't you? And now you're preparing someone else, teaching them about that awful world out there, and what they have to do if they want to survive in it. That's your philosophy, isn't it, when it comes right down to it? Kill or be killed?"

"I've no reason to argue with that."

The voice was stronger now, piped through differently. The Doctor turned to the door in time to see it slide open. He frowned when he saw the gun in Zoey's hand. "Oh, that's _really_ not necessary," he said.

"I could kill you."

"Yes, you could," the Doctor agreed. "But you won't."

Zoey smirked. "Oh, don't think you can talk me out of it, darling, because you _can't_."

"Oh, I'm sure you're perfectly capable of pulling that trigger and not blinking an eye," the Doctor allowed, rather amiably. "But you won't kill me because I'm too useful. I've got knowledge, and you can use that knowledge. That's why you locked me up here in the first place. To observe me, to see how I act, to interrogate me and see how much I know. And you've determined that I know quite a lot. More than you're comfortable with, and quite likely more than I'm letting on. And you don't like that. So you want to get rid of me. But, you can't. Because you _need_ me. You need to get this experiment of yours up and running and functioning before you lose too many others, because you can only cover up so many deaths before people start asking questions."

"Perhaps," Zoey agreed. "But if I was going to kill you, I wouldn't want the fun over so quickly." She studied him for a moment, smiling slightly. "I hate to mar that pretty body of yours, but I think you could use a little incentive with helping us." She turned the gun towards his right shoulder—but with the angle of the weapon, it was still a bit too close to his right heart for comfort.

"Ah, ah, just…just a tic, just a tiny, little tic, just one, I promise, okay?" the Doctor interrupted, holding up both hands. He spared a second's silence and continued, "You never asked me why I came here. Let me tell you. I came to help, Zoey. It doesn't matter if you believe me or not, but that's why I came here. To help you." He saw her eyes narrow and hastily added, "It's what I do. And…let's just say that I expect something to come out of this little experiment of yours that's to my liking." He could stop the splintering. And keep the timeline intact, painful as it was, with all the things this particular project would do. "But, I like having a bit of assurance, and I can get it by helping you figure out the handlink. I wasn't lying when I said I was a scientific adviser." At one point, more than a few lifetimes ago, but still not a lie. Especially since he'd never resigned. He grinned. "And, even if I was lying, it wouldn't really matter, so long as I know my stuff, right?"

Zoey didn't reply, but her aim didn't waver, either. They kept their positions like a tableau until someone else broke the silence, the footsteps echoing up the hallway before their owner appeared. "Zoey, Lothos is—" The outrageously dressed man stopped. "Zoey, sweetheart, I thought we'd agreed to drag this out."

"We'd agreed that he was mine," Zoey corrected coldly.

"And you're letting him taunt you into having a quick death?" The man laughed. "You must be slipping."

Zoey finally lowered the gun and glared at the man. The Doctor allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He didn't care to explain regenerating to them, and, frankly, he wasn't ready to die. That would complicate things a _bit_ too much. "You shouldn't be interrupting, Thames," she snapped.

"Oh, don't get touchy," Thames shot back. "You don't think he has potential, fine. We'll move him. If you do, great. We'll implant the chip and go."

"_Chip_?" the Doctor repeated, looking torn between disbelief and disgust.

Thames looked at him and the Doctor bit his tongue. "Monitor," he said simply. "Apparently _you_ didn't do as much research on us as you'd thought."

Zoey rolled her eyes and shoved the gun into Thames's hands. "You deal with that, then. I'm going to check on Alia."

"Wait, hold on, I'm not getting any _chip_…." The Doctor trailed off as Thames pointed the gun at him. He swallowed. "It's going to be a bit difficult trying to talk my way out of this, isn't it?"

Thames gestured to the door with his free hand. "Just move. I'll tell you where to go."

The Doctor sighed. Apparently he'd be using the sonic screwdriver before long anyhow. He'd have to scramble the readings on the chip until he could take it out. He knew he couldn't stop them from implanting the thing without _really_ raising their suspicions, but he rather hoped they wouldn't have to shave his head to do it. He was rather fond on his hair, now that he had some again.

The entire experience wasn't as unpleasant as he'd expected. A simple tracking monitor inserted just under the skin, in his case the back of his right hand, monitoring his whereabouts and simple things like body temperature, heart rate, pulse, and whatnot. It was an interesting little thing, powered electromechanically via muscle movement, but by no means the limit of their capabilities. At least, not if he were to judge by some of the medical equipment they had, no matter what they tried to conceal it as.

Still, advanced technology or not, they couldn't top his sonic screwdriver.

By the time Thames had finished activating the chip and getting a baseline for his readings, the Doctor had scrambled them to appear normal. Well, they'd return to normal. He'd heightened the readings, just a bit, to give the impression of unease. That's what they wanted, after all. He saw no reason not to give it to them.

"This looks temporary," the Doctor said at length, tired of the silence. Not that it was really silent. All that machinery bleeping and humming away made sure there was no absence of sound. Good to cover up the whine of his sonic screwdriver, but not so good in terms of being easy on the ears. Still, it was easy enough to ignore, at least for now.

"It is," Thames replied shortly. "Depending on your actions, we decide whether or not you should be upgraded."

"Upgraded?" the Doctor repeated. He silently cursed how he excelled at word association.

"Or downgraded. Like I said, it depends on your actions." Thames hit another few keys on the computer.

"By downgraded, you wouldn't happen to mean exterminated, would you?" the Doctor asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Thames let out a sharp bark of laughter. "No use hoping for a quick death," he said instead, turning to look at the Doctor. "You won't get it. Not unless you commit suicide." Jerking his thumb behind him, he added, "But you wouldn't succeed, because we'd know the minute you tried anything."

"Terrance Fletcher managed it," the Doctor pointed out. "Least, I gather he did. Because you were looking over some of his work, weren't you, in your main control room? I saw it on one of the periphery screens. Any man who knows a thing about quantum physics would have spotted that. It was a deliberate miscalculation." The Doctor paused, watching Thames's face. "Oh, Lothos would have caught it, I'm sure, if you'd run it by him," the Doctor added, answering the unasked question. "Only, you didn't. And neither did he. Or Zoey."

"Lothos knows everything that's entered into the systems," Thames shot back angrily.

"Does he, then? Suppose he would." The Doctor fingered the tender area of skin beneath which the implanted chip lay. "Funny, then, isn't it, that he let it pass anyway? Makes you think he wanted Dr. Fletcher gone. Out with the old, in with the new."

"Are you implying," Thames started stiffly, "that he _knew_ you were coming?"

The Doctor smiled. "Oh, I doubt that. Not even Lothos, advanced as he is, would have been able to predict that. But it makes you wonder, doesn't it, how much he engineers around here? How much of what you actually do is because he's playing you like chess pieces?"

"If you don't shut your mouth," Thames retorted, "I'll shut it for you."

The Doctor was tempted to joke, making a comment or two about empty threats, but he knew, now, that it was better to keep silent. Plastering the most unnerving smile he could muster onto his face, he did just that.

* * *

A/N: And deeper and deeper into the story we go... Thanks to everyone who takes the time to review. It's much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Zoey frowned. It had been a week since the mysterious Dr. Smith had joined their ranks, and she still wasn't sure what to make of him. He worked well, effectively and efficiently. But he was tricky—he displayed only enough knowledge to do his work and hid the rest. She wasn't sure how much he actually knew, and she didn't like that. Observation had been proven ineffective. She hadn't been able to discern a weakness to hold against him. It was high time, she figured, to move to more…_direct_ methods of persuasion.

"He's slick," Thames commented, looking at the feed displayed on the screen. "More than I gave him credit for. Fletcher cracked in two days."

"The fool was trying to contact the authorities." Zoey's lip curled. "It's just as well he knew something, and valued his family more than his knowledge."

"This Dr. Smith doesn't seem to have any family."

Zoey chuckled. "Of course not, Thames. Look at him. He doesn't want us to have anything to hold over his head. He wasn't chosen for this assignment simply because he had the brains for it."

"So you think he's affiliated with someone?"

"He has to be. Pity that they won't be seeing him again."

"Lothos hasn't turned anything up."

"Nothing substantial," Zoey corrected. "We don't know that it's not connected. That report, from 1969, could very easily be depicting the man's father. Or, at the very least, it tells us how he chose his name."

"He did say he was well-connected," Thames admitted. "He could have covered his tracks."

"He can't hide anything that Lothos can't uncover. There are always traces." Zoey idly watched the screen. After a moment, her expression changed into a deepening frown. "He's in Alia's file," she spat, straightening.

"Cool it," Thames said. "This is the first time he's tried anything. Let's see what he's looking for. We could figure out why he's here."

"And that's why Lothos hasn't stopped him?" Zoey snapped. "I really don't like to think that anyone can get around our systems, but if there's a chance that he _can_, I'm not about to let him do it!"

For a moment, Thames looked shocked, but he was quick enough to school his expression again. "Lothos will know what he's doing. He's probably just biding his time."

Zoey glared, but did not contradict him. "Very well. If the good Dr. Smith is so interested in Alia, then he can work with her. She will be the first test subject when he says he's completed his work."

"You're going to risk her?" Thames asked, looking honestly surprised. "And if it fails?"

"A setback," Zoey replied sharply. "Nothing more."

"It's been—"

"I _know_ how long it's been. I _know_ what I've invested in her. But our Dr. Smith wasn't told about our trial leapers specifically, yet he managed to pull Alia's file without difficulty. He knows about her."

"Are you willing to wait to confront him, then?" Thames asked sceptically. "It could be months."

"Not at the rate he's working," Zoey corrected. "He knows what he's doing. He's researched this sort of thing before."

"He'd said he had experience," Thames allowed, recalling the recording of Dr. Smith's conversation with the guard. "Do you think that's what he meant?"

"He wasn't bluffing when he said he was a brilliant scientist. But he's too cocky if he thinks he's licked us yet." Zoey tapped the screen. "Keep watching him. I'm going to inform Alia that she's finally to meet the new addition."

* * *

Alia was surprised by Zoey's announcement. She'd heard whispers of the new head scientist—even in their secluded quarters, news still found a way to travel. What interested her was that no one really knew anything about him, as far as she could tell, though there were hopes that he could be the one to work out the details that had eluded the others.

She wondered if he knew what he was really working towards.

If he did, she wasn't sure she wanted to meet him.

She couldn't refuse, she knew. But he wouldn't be the first madman she'd met since she'd come here. Another in a long line of conniving— Alia stopped. She shouldn't judge him yet. Perhaps he didn't know the end intention of the experiment. If that was so, then he was a fool. It hadn't taken Dr. Fletcher very long to realize what Zoey really wanted, or what Lothos was.

Zoey left her in one of the Mirror Rooms. Alia hated these rooms. Reflection upon reflection, fragments of a repeated image over and over and over, top, bottom, sides—and no peace. They were two-way mirrors. Inside, you were haunted by your own replicated image. Outside, they watched you.

She wasn't sure how long she was in there. It felt like ages. She was sitting now, on the mirrored floor, looking between it and the walls and the ceiling. The woman in the mirror didn't seem to be her any more. She copied Alia's movements, but she felt like an imposter. Or perhaps she herself was the imposter, and the woman in the mirror was her true self. Which of them had pulled the trigger? Which of them had murdered, killing another to save her own life?

One of the images in front of her twisted, its angle changing, and she realized the door was opening. She'd forgotten where it was. It was so easy to get turned around in this room.

The man who walked in was younger than she'd expected. He looked a bit tired; she wondered how much they were letting him sleep. They certainly hadn't offered him any clothes, judging by the suit he wore. She could see a rumpled shirt beneath it and decided he must have been sleeping in it. She doubted they were rationing his water, though, for he was still clean shaven. He must have been provided with a mirror along with those other toiletries—he didn't bear any cuts, and she saw no patch of stubble on his face. And his tie was straight, though his hair was far from neat and tidy.

The door closed, and he smiled at her. She wondered at its sincerity. "Hello, Alia," he said, his gentle smile spreading into a grin. "Pleased to meet you. I'm the Doctor." He held out a hand.

She reached out to shake it, but he pulled her to her feet first before shaking her hand enthusiastically. She retracted her hand as delicately as she could. "Hello, Dr. Smith," she replied, keeping her voice smooth and level.

"Just the Doctor, if you don't mind." He paused, and then launched off into a rapid explanation. "I hear enough of Dr. Smith from everyone else. Gets a bit tiring—especially the way they say it. Namely because they don't believe it's my name. Not that I blame them. It's a bit of an adopted name, I will admit, but it's grown on me. Still, I'm surprised they haven't asked me more questions. I would have expected more. I suppose they just want to see what they can figure out by watching me. Because that's why we're here, you and I. Well, I think it's why we're here. Bit of an assumption, but a fair one."

"I beg your pardon?" Alia asked, not quite sure what to make of the new scientist.

"I was looking at your file," the Doctor replied cheerfully. "Bit scant. They don't keep good records. They don't even list a last name for you."

"I gave it up," Alia replied, "for the privilege of being involved in this experiment."

"And you didn't think that was a bit dodgy?" The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Bit naïve, wouldn't you say?"

"If you are so critical of the experiment, then may I ask why you are here?"

"To help," the Doctor replied simply.

"With what?" Alia knew she shouldn't be so direct, so blunt, that she should be more subtle, but she felt being frank was the best approach.

"Is that your question? I would have thought you'd ask who I was going to help. But, still, valid question. No harm in answering it. I'm going to help launch this experiment by solving the mystery of the handlink."

He still sounded cheerful. Alia was at a loss. He was critical of the experiment, but he was perfectly willing to make it come to fruition. He didn't act like a man terrified or cowed. She wondered what hold they had over him. It occurred to her that perhaps they didn't have one at all. But if that were the case, why would he be here?

"Are you progressing well?" she asked, hoping his face would fall, that he'd tell her, no, he was actually having a fair bit of trouble.

Instead he grinned. "Oh, yes!"

She couldn't hide the shock from her face, but she managed a smile. "That's excellent, then." She wondered what he wanted, now, but didn't dare ask, because that was an answer they needed to know or she wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place.

The grin faded at her words. "It'll work, you know," he informed her quietly. "In you go, destroy history, and out you come."

Destroy history. If that's how he saw it, why was he helping? "It'll be all the better in the end," she said instead.

"Will it?" the Doctor wondered. "I'm not so sure. Whoever you leap into, Alia—you'll be touching their lives. They won't rid themselves of the mark you leave on them. The stain. And you'll be the one doing it, no matter whose aura you wear. They'll suffer the consequences of your actions, ones they'd avoided the first time through."

"It won't just be me," she pointed out stiffly. "There will be others."

The Doctor shook his head. "Not compatible with this technology," he told her. "Sorry." He didn't look sorry. He looked pleased. For a brief moment, she wondered if he was lying and that their technology _was_ compatible with more than one leaper at a time, but then she dismissed it. He'd chosen his side, willingly and cheerfully, and regardless of his reasons, he was supporting it. They had enough other scientists on staff to support his words, anyhow. If he was lying, they'd find out, and he'd pay the price.

"Then why do you suppose I'll have the honour of being chosen?"

The Doctor seemed to wince a bit at her words. "It's, ah, not exactly what I'd call an _honour_." He paused, looking rather sad. "I'm sorry, Alia. I'm so, so sorry. I'm the reason they chose you, I think. Because they think you're the reason I came here."

"I've never met you before in my life," Alia replied, managing to hide how startled she was. "Why would they think that?"

"Same reason they arranged for this little meeting of ours," the Doctor answered. "Because I was looking at your file. They think I'll tell you something I haven't told them. I haven't, yet. At least, not anything they wouldn't find out for themselves." He stopped, looking at her carefully. "You always have a choice, Alia. And you might not think it, but you have the strength to make the right choice. I know you do."

"I hardly think we've been acquainted long enough for you to make judgements on my character," Alia said sharply, unnerved.

He smiled at her. Reaching out with his left hand, he touched her forehead, in a place where she'd thought the scar was hidden by her hairline. He then touched his right hand. "Just because we've been marked," he said, "doesn't mean we have to give up." The smile became a bright grin. "I certainly haven't. Without a fight? Nah! No fun in that. Especially when I'm so close. Takes a bit longer, given the tools I have to work with, but I don't think I've missed anything yet."

"I hope not." Any mistake on his part would cost her her life, if she was really the one chosen for the first test. Though he had no reason to lie, and she had been scheduled for it. She'd just hoped it wouldn't stand, given what had happened to Dr. Fletcher.

"Three days," the Doctor said. "That's about all I should need. Provided everything's like I think it is. I'll take my time checking it over." He paused again, and continued in a more serious tone, "Just remember, Alia. Nothing's forever. There's always hope. And there's always good with the bad. There's a balance, and while it may seem to tip one way or the other from time to time, I haven't seen it completely overturned, not without one scrap of the other side struggling to hold on and gain a foothold. And I've seen quite a lot in my time." His eyes strayed away from her face, but she doubted he was seeing his reflection elsewhere; he was too caught up in his own thoughts.

The Doctor turned so suddenly that Alia wondered, if only for a second, if he was going to have a fit. They induced them sometimes, with their so-called monitoring chips. But he didn't; his attention was simply caught by the opening door. "Oh," he said, not sounding very surprised. "Looks like time's up. And I hardly had a chance to say anything to you." He grinned. She thought that perhaps he was joking, but if she took into account how much of worth he had actually said, she found the statement to be quite true. "Hopefully we'll have time for another little chat sometime, yeah? Preferably somewhere private." A pause. "Still, it was good to finally meet you, Alia." He shook her hand again, and then he was gone.

She stood alone in the Mirror Room for a moment, puzzling over the entire encounter, but she couldn't make sense of it. She couldn't make any sense of the mysterious Doctor Smith, either. Zoey's short temper with her this past week suddenly made a lot more sense. Not only did the Doctor strike her as someone who could evade almost any question put to him if he put his mind to it, but he also didn't seem like the sort with overly loose morals. Suppressing a smile, Alia left the Mirror Room with a touch more confidence than she'd had upon entering it.

* * *

"What do you think?"

Zoey glanced at Thames. "He's a better actor than I'd anticipated," she replied shortly.

Thames rolled his eyes at her. "Meaning?"

"He confirmed what we knew, but what he told Alia is what he told us. He didn't outright admit to being here for her." Zoey paused. "But I'd still say he's wielding a two-edged sword. As happy as he seems to be with working here, and as good as his work seems to be, he looks like he'd rather sabotage the entire experiment than spend another hour at it. Even Alia picked up on that."

"So why not take him down to the Holding Chamber and teach him a lesson?' Thames suggested.

Zoey glared at him. "Because he hasn't tried anything, yet. Lothos is screening every move that man makes, and he hasn't done anything against us." Thames looked like he was about to repeat his question, but she silenced him with a look, adding. "Lothos predicts that he is close to finishing. I don't want any delays."

"He says he'll be done in three days," Thames noted, nodding at the screen, where Dr. Smith was still babbling away.

Zoey smiled. "Excellent. I'll hold him to it. Open the door. I'll escort Alia back to her chamber. You can make sure that Dr. Smith resumes his work."

"I want to check his chip," Thames called after her. "To see if it's functioning properly."

Zoey reappeared at the door, looking annoyed. "Then _check_ it. Don't bother me with that." She read Thames's look and rolled her eyes. "Very well, then. Take him for a short stint in the Holding Chamber for all I care. Just leave enough intact for him to finish his work on time."

Grinning like the cat who'd gotten the cream, Thames waited until the monitor read that Alia had left the Reflection Chamber, sealed it again, and went to catch up with the ill-fated Dr. Smith.

* * *

It wasn't the worst six hours the Doctor had lived through, but it definitely wasn't the best.

He was just glad he'd set their infernal chip to react as they would have expected.

He spit the blood out of his mouth and wondered vaguely if he had a water bottle in one of his pockets to rinse his mouth out. He'd gotten a pocket flask from someone once. He couldn't remember who at the moment, which irked him, but he was mentally as well as physically exhausted. Part of it was his fault; he hadn't been sleeping the past few days. Night, or at least when they dimmed the lights in the cell they'd given him, was the only time he'd had to examine the parallel. It was the only time they weren't watching him. Oh, they tracked him, but he could relax enough to feign sleep and then set out to mentally examine the parallel.

It was enough of a tricky process as it was. Mentally draining, but his body had a chance to rest. If he didn't need to be so focussed during the day, he could do what he normally did when he wasn't rushing about: resting part of his brain at a time. He wasn't inclined to mention this to his companions, however. Martha had caught him at it once during their recent time in 1969 and berated him for daydreaming, and he'd been foolish enough to correct her, just partly, and by the time he'd finished his explanations—or excuses, as she'd put it—she'd been all set for teasing him, saying he'd probably never had a good night's sleep in his life.

He had, of course. It wasn't like he was incapable of sleeping like humans. It was just better to be prepared, that's all.

And sometimes, most notably early on in his ninth regeneration, he'd spent days in blessed oblivion.

And there had been other times when he'd been too fearful to leave himself vulnerable. Also early on in his ninth regeneration, and also for long stretches of time.

He could always use the rest of his drinking water, he supposed. He didn't have much. He'd rationed it as best he could, and only had a swallow or so left now, but it would get the taste out of his mouth. He didn't think he could stomach swallowing much more bloody saliva.

He was dreadfully thirsty, though. And his throat was still a bit raw. His body ached. Tired as he was, he wasn't sure if he could trust himself to fall asleep. But if he didn't get some, he'd collapse tomorrow. And he doubted they'd be very happy with him after that. But he couldn't afford a lapse anyway; he needed to monitor the progress on the handlink. He'd had enough trouble wangling the lead position, and he couldn't lose it, not when he was so close to finishing.

He debated his options. He could force himself to sleep. Trouble was, he may not wake up when he needed to. Or, if matters became worse, he'd slip into a healing coma, and then he'd be in for it. No, he was better off trying to sleep normally. He just had to focus on something else, block out the pain as best he could, and rest.

The Doctor swished his mouth with a few precious drops of water before draining the rest of his cup.

He'd feel more chipper in the morning. Or at least by the time they turned the lights up again.


	4. Chapter 4

Alia was exhausted. Her training had become more intense over the last couple of days. They were testing her endurance, Zoey had said. If they continued, Alia was certain she'd collapse.

She'd seen Dr. Smith once since his visit with her, just in passing. She knew they had been listening to that earlier visit, and the way he held himself in the time she'd seen him since convinced her that they hadn't liked everything they'd heard. She wondered if she would have been punished, too, if they hadn't needed her in shape for leaping. Perhaps. Or perhaps she was a good enough actress to mask how she really felt.

Or perhaps she was really starting to believe everything they told her, without her fully realizing it.

There was a knock on the door.

No one ever knocked. Why would they? The door closed, and she was locked in. As far as she knew, no one could force their way in from the outside, either. Lothos opened it when she approached—probably at Zoey's word, but lately she was suspecting it was due to the proximity of the monitoring chip, what with Zoey being so busy—and closed it behind her. She remained there until someone came to fetch her. That was how it worked.

The knocking came again, three quiet taps. Then, "May I come in?"

Dr. Smith.

"You are in there, aren't you, Alia? I thought you would be. And you've been allotted this room on the layout."

"I'm here," Alia finally answered, finding her voice.

"Brilliant. You wouldn't mind letting me in, then?"

"I can't."

"Oh. And here I was thinking they just locked me in because they didn't trust me. Didn't realize it was company policy. Hold on a tic."

Alia listened, stunned, to the strange whine that followed Dr. Smith's words, and nearly jumped in surprise when the door slid open. "What did you do?" she asked, shocked.

Dr. Smith grinned at her. "I've a few tricks up my sleeve," he admitted, ducking through the doorway. He showed her a silver tool before pointing it at the door. The device buzzed again under his direction, and the door slid closed. "There we are," he said, pocketing it. "Privacy."

"We're never alone here," Alia reminded him. She wanted to ask about the device, but was terrified that this was some sort of test. It would be just like them. She wasn't sure what to make of Dr. Smith in the first place; that they would use that against her was almost expected.

"What, you don't think I can take out a camera or two?" Dr. Smith looked almost offended.

Alia decided she was imagining the expression. "They'd know if you tried anything," she pointed out. "Please, Dr. Smith, don—"

"The Doctor," he corrected immediately. "You took to it well enough last time, and I'd hate to think you're calling me Dr. Smith just because you want to be proper, or just because you think they might be listening."

"They are," Alia confirmed quietly. "They always are."

The Doctor looked at her for a moment. He pulled his device back out of his pocket. "D'you mind?" he asked, looking at her. "Normally I'd just start, but I met this one friend, and she took such offense the first time I started scanning her—well, second time, too, actually—and if you're right, I can't afford upsetting you. I've been waiting too long to alert them to this now."

"You want to…scan me?"

The Doctor nodded. "Just will give me an idea of how inclusive they are in their upgrade, I suppose I'll say. And precisely how they've connected you to your observer."

"You mean my partner?"

"Partner, observer, same thing." The Doctor waved it off. "But, yes. May I?"

"I suppose." Alia still had her doubts—how could something used to control the doors act as a scanner?—but decided that until she was given a clue as to how she was to act, she'd best go along with it.

It only took a moment, but it had the Doctor frowning nonetheless. He fiddled with his device and then resumed, rapidly explaining, "They've got the connections on a different frequency, to avoid disruption, which means they put it in at a separate time, which I suppose I should have expected, but I didn't, so it really is a good thing I came for a bit of a chat, because I might have missed something otherwise, and then I can't guarantee everything would have worked."

"With the leaping process?" Alia asked when he stopped.

The Doctor nodded, pocketing his device again. Then he frowned. "Well, sort of," he amended. "Not exactly what you're thinking of, but yes." He paused. "Afraid this may be a bit of a one-sided conversation, though, because I don't want to try disrupting that now, what with you being a top priority leaper at the moment. They'd notice if you fell off the network for half a second or so. And if they're going to be double-checking everything you say, you'd best keep quiet. Well, except for the occasional question."

"Such as why?"

"Well, _why_ is such broad question on its own," the Doctor said, "but, a subset of it, yes, I expect you'll want to know that. Well, you probably want to know all of it, but I can't _tell_ you all of it."

"Why not?"

The Doctor sighed. "Because it's not set yet," he answered.

"_Set_? But isn't the accelerator ready once the programming's finished?"

"I did say _occasional_ question," the Doctor reminded her. "And to your final one, yes."

"But then—"

"Alia, please." The Doctor looked suddenly weary, and Alia fell silent, wondering what sort of things they had been putting him through. And why he was willing to risk more to speak with her.

"It's not going to be pleasant, Alia," the Doctor began slowly. "Because nothing they've done can prepare you for what they'll make you do."

Don't ask questions. It was a rule she'd learned a long time ago. All the Doctor meant was that they'd given him a list of leaps to program in, and he knew where she would be headed, if it worked. What they wanted changed.

She focussed on the wall behind his left shoulder.

"And I'm sorry," the Doctor continued, "but you have to do it."

She knew that. They'd kill her if she didn't. They didn't have any use for someone who—

"They don't, after all, have any use for someone who can't play Simon Says," the Doctor continued. "They say jump, and you have to jump."

Alia stared at him. She was shocked and…terrified.

"And you're a good actress, Alia, but they can see into your head with _that_—" and here he pointed towards her scar "—and they will want to show you that they're calling the shots, not you. They have no intentions of easing you into this. They want to break you. You'll be dependent on them, after all. They'll control where you go and how long you stay there."

Alia didn't need to voice her question; it was clear on her face, and she knew the Doctor knew it.

"I have to do this," the Doctor said. "I just…. I have to."

He wasn't offering any excuses.

No one ever did.

He was looking around now, as if debating whether he should say something. Perhaps the look on her face decided him, because he added, "Things would be worse if they didn't start with control over your leaps. I needed to come to push them in this direction, Alia. Things would be worse if I hadn't come. I…." He trailed off, running his fingers through his hair. "I know you probably don't want to believe me, but it's true. They want to twist the past so they can shape the present to become one they want. And I can't let that happen."

"But you are."

"For now, yes. But only for now. Because this…." The Doctor waved a hand weakly around him. "This…this…. It happened. So it has to happen again. For it to set properly. Because I _need_ it to hold. I can't risk letting it snap, or separating at another part further along. That would tear me apart."

Alia's jaw worked for moment before she managed words. "I don't understand."

"That's the trouble," the Doctor said. "You don't understand time. None of you do. It's dangerous. And it's fragile. You lot, what you're doing here—you're taking a hammer and smashing it to bits, trying to shape it the way you are. And then you leave someone else to pick up the pieces. And there may be someone who can fix it, Alia, and put right whatever's gone wrong, but he's going to have a job ahead of him if you try to destroy everything he's worked for. Because all you'll be achieving, in the end, is a balance. Each trying to tip it one way or the other, but you can't. Because the two are never really separate. Trust me. I've seen it. I've seen people _destroy_ themselves because they can't admit that."

If you removed one side, the other wouldn't survive. To destroy one would be to destroy the other, because without one, the other wouldn't exist. She could understand that, if not whatever else he'd said.

"You won't be able to fight forever, Alia," the Doctor said, "but you don't need to give up the ability to make the right choice when the time comes, when you're offered another chance. And if you take it, and the consequences of making that choice, and you stick by your decision, you'll get another chance, sometime. A chance for freedom. It won't be an easy fight, but it's possible to win it, if you believe you can."

She wanted to ask whether he meant it, any of it, and why he was saying it in the first place. But she didn't want to be lied to more than she was already.

"So I'm sorry, Alia. I'm sorry that I have to make you do this, and I can't say I'm overly pleased that I've had a hand in it, but this isn't the first time that I've done something like this, even if I didn't know that at the time. But I do now, and I don't like it, but I can't change what I've done. Or what I didn't do." He pulled a face. "That's why I'm in this mess in the first place, not being able to change what I've done."

Because he couldn't change the past? Alia tried to smooth out the slight frown on her face. He couldn't mean that. No one could change the past. Not yet. And she would be the first.

If she survived.

He had assured her that she would, though. And she was fairly certain she wouldn't know it if she didn't. But why—

The realization hit her then. "You want me to change something in your past, once I'm leaping? That's why you're here?" It all made sense now, the twisted words, the double-meanings, the vague references. He was helping with the experiment, but not without getting exactly what he wanted out of it.

The Doctor slowly shook his head. "No. You can't change my past. I'm trying to right it, that's all, even if I can't change what went wrong initially any more than you can. Surely you can't fault me for that?"

He was just trying to turn his life around, then. Like any ordinary human being who'd done something that was later regretted.

"No," she answered quietly. "I can't."

"I'm glad," the Doctor said, "because I have a feeling you'll think you have reason enough to blame me once they've set you leaping. I promise you, Alia. It won't be forever."

"If it works," she added, knowing that, if things went as they had been, she wouldn't be leaping at all, let alone forever.

"Oh, it'll work," the Doctor said. "It'll work too well, to start. I haven't missed anything."

"You never know what you miss," Alia pointed out, "or you wouldn't be missing it."

"Perhaps," the Doctor agreed. "But, I'd best be going. I was informed in no uncertain terms that I am to have you leaping this time tomorrow, and I'd still like to check a few things over. Just…remember what I said, if you can."

He was gone before she thought to ask why he thought she may not be able to remember.

* * *

Zoey watched Dr. Smith carefully. He was methodical. Careful, but quick, likely going through a mental checklist as he moved from room to room, checking readings and who knew what else. His persistence was to be admired. She knew Thames wouldn't have gone easy on him in the Holding Chamber, yet he hadn't let that stop him from his work. He didn't even try to favour the wounds that obviously still pained him. Admirable, but not without motive.

He didn't acknowledge her when she entered the Control Room, but she had no doubt that he knew she was there. Oh, he was proving his worth, this one. He wasn't one who would be able to get away once he was finished. If he thought they were keeping a close watch on him now, then he was in for a rather unpleasant surprise.

She had to wonder who he really was, the brilliantly clever man who went around calling himself Dr. John Smith. Lothos had yet to determine the man's true identity. Obtaining a clear set of his fingerprints had been ridiculously easy, but they hadn't yielded any matches. For that matter, nothing else they had pursued had turned anything up. It was as if he'd just dropped onto the face of the Earth, right into the middle of their little experiment. She had to concede the high level of skill possessed by whoever was behind hiding his trail. It was quite formidable.

"Won't be long, if that's what you're here to ask," Dr. Smith said presently. He still hadn't looked up from whatever he was doing.

"If you're going to answer a question I haven't asked," Zoey informed him simply, "you might as well be specific enough to save me the bother of asking anything about it at all."

"Nah," Dr. Smith retorted lightly. "You don't seem to be the type who wants to be bothered with all the details. That's why you keep Thames around, isn't it? To deal with the details?"

"He has his uses," Zoey allowed, "as do you."

"Oh, right, because you don't keep anyone around who isn't useful." The playfulness was gone now, the voice flatter, tighter.

"We find a use for those who are not necessary elsewhere, I can assure you." Zoey smiled. "What that use is depends more on the person than their prior position."

"And that's all just fine and dandy, isn't it, because you've got positions enough to fill when you keep killing off the incompetents, don't you? Whose book did that page come from? I'm supposing Mussolini over Stalin and the like, myself, at least at the moment, what with your concern for efficiency. Tell me, is it really all running on time, or are you just pretending it is?"

"When do you estimate we will be able to hold the first trial, Dr. Smith?"

"Oh, it won't be a trial. Well, you can call it that if you like, but it'll work, and it won't just be a one-time thing. Though I expect you're calling it a trial because you'll want to run it and then analyze the effects?"

"Dr. Smith," Zoey repeated stiffly, "when do you estimate—"

"Not long."

"I am _asking_—"

"And I am answering: not long."

"Oh, please, _don't_ think yourself so important that we would hesitate to use you as a subject."

"For this little time travel experiment? Nah. You can't control two leapers at once. Not advanced enough. You might be able to leap two people at once, if you're _extremely_ lucky, but you'd never get them out at the same time, and I don't really think you want to find yourself in the dilemma where you've sent the only person who really knows what they're doing off in time."

"Are you suggesting—?"

"Am I? I'm not sure. Bit hard to say. Don't know what I'm suggesting half the time."

Dr. Smith's attitude had gotten worse since Thames had taken him to the Holding Chamber. Perhaps he thought that that was the worst they could do. Or perhaps he thought he wasn't expendable. If that were the case, then the man was a fool. An arrogant, infuriating, egotistical fool.

"So," Dr. Smith said at length, his voice sounding more cheerful than ever, "what's your favourite colour? Blue? Red?"

"At the moment," Zoey replied sharply, "we'll say black."

"Orange it is, then!" Dr. Smith enthused, flourishing a bit of plastic at her. When he stopped waving it about, she realized what it was: a new handlink.

"You've finished?" she asked evenly. He grinned, and she allowed her lips to curl into a smile. "Impressive." She took the handlink for a closer inspection. "The colour leaves a bit to be desired, but you can't account for taste."

Dr. Smith started coughing. When she looked up to glare at him, he waved a hand towards his throat. "Just…bit of a frog," he croaked.

Zoey revised her earlier opinion of him. He _wasn't_ a competent liar. But she didn't have time to quibble with him over her choice of attire. "Lothos," she began, "is everything prepared?" She ignored Dr. Smith's indignant protests that it _was_, and was relieved to hear Lothos's confirmation. "Excellent. Lothos, alert Thames and tell him to set the coordinates and initiate the leaping process on my command. Dr. Smith, with me. We'll be preparing Alia."

"Oh, you mean you don't want me to—?" Dr. Smith looked a bit surprised. "Oh. Well. Right. Of course."

Zoey wasn't in the mood to answer him, but at least she didn't have to drag him down the corridors with her. He followed readily enough. That was a good sign; she could use that trust against him. She'd let him have the chance to say something to Alia—then she'd at least get some indication of whether or not this would actually work, or at least what he hoped to gain by helping them, since she was certain it was something—and then she was going to throw him in the Holding Chamber until she had time to deal with him. She didn't fancy leaving him in there by himself, but they had a fair assortment of…devices in there, and he wouldn't be able ruin all of them in the time she planned to be away. She wasn't about to set Alia leaping without watching, now, was she? Oh, no. It could be a glorious death, even if it marked another failure, and she lost the work of months…or she would be needed as a contact, to walk Alia through her first assignment.

She would have to visit Dr. Smith when it was over, either way.

She would _so _enjoy watching him quiver and cry out in pain as she put him through the paces. She might even go just a bit further, pushing him to his threshold, once she found out what she needed to know.

Whatever that was—what he'd gotten wrong or how he'd managed to make it work or what his motive really was or who exactly he happened to be or how he'd found out about them—would be decided quite quickly, she imagined. They were counting down the minutes, now. In only a few more mere minutes, she'd know the extent of the experiment's power—and the reach of her own.

* * *

The door slid open, revealing Zoey. The Doctor stood behind her, looking apologetic. Alia stood up, anticipating Zoey's order. She'd been dressed in the Fermi suit since the morning—or what they treated as morning, since she hadn't seen daylight since her last lesson on the shooting range with Zoey three days ago—and knew today was the day she either changed history…or became it.

She couldn't truthfully say that she had been anticipating it.

"Get to the accelerator chamber," Zoey ordered. "Thames will direct you via the intercom."

"What about you?"

"I'll be observing you," Zoey replied with a laugh. "Really, darling, you can't think I'd miss this, do you?"

Alia looked at the Doctor. "Am I going to be safe?" she asked.

"Yes," the Doctor answered. "Don't know whether you'd call that unfortunate or fortunate, but I suppose that'll depend on your point of view, and I think you might change that a few years down the road." He paused. "I'm sorry, Alia. I really am. You shouldn't have to go through this, but it's necessary. And I am so sorry for that."

She wondered at his words, and what, precisely, he meant by how she shouldn't have to go through with it. Did he mean how his actions had gotten her chosen as the first test subject? Was he referring to the experiment? His personal beliefs? Was it a plea for chivalry of sorts, or something else entirely?

But she was used to having all the questions and none of the answers, so she was satisfied with the one that she was given: she was going to be safe.

"Well," the Doctor amended, "safe as far as the leaping itself. I don't really have a lot of control after that. You'll be on your own then. And I don't think they'll have prepared you for it, because it's not something that you can really prepare someone for, seeing as they're tearing your body apart and sending you along the periphery of the Vortex to be reassembled in another time based on your atomic pattern, but within another person's aura, and that's bound to be disorienting, so it's really no surprise that your memory's going to be a bit misassembled, missing a piece here and there, but you ought to retain enough to know that you're you and not whoever you've leaped into, but I'm afraid you're going to have to depend on Zoey here to tell you what to do, and you might not like it, and I certainly won't like it, though I don't have a say and I highly doubt you do either, since they seem to be the ones calling the shots, and—"

Zoey shoved the Doctor, evidently tired of hearing him blithering on, and effectively cut off his speech as he stumbled into the wall. Alia noted that he was weaker than he had been the last time she'd seen him. "Thames will be getting impatient," Zoey said pointedly.

She mustn't anger Lothos, Alia interpreted. She nodded a silent thanks to the Doctor, who was rubbing his shoulder but biting his tongue. She knew Zoey had plans for the Doctor, and she was fairly certain she knew what those plans involved.

No matter what the Doctor thought, she believed she was fortunate now. She was escaping. That was something she doubted the Doctor would manage, for even someone clever enough to complete the experiment wouldn't be able to escape. Even if he did manage to somehow leave the building, they'd find him and track him down. He wouldn't find an escape then, once they caught him. He would spend the rest of his life in hell.

Alia bit her lip, pausing in front of the accelerator chamber door to gather her courage. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped inside. The door closed behind her, sealing her in. She heard the machinery beneath her feet roar to life. She could hear, vaguely, Thames's voice, but she wasn't paying attention to it any more.

She could feel herself being torn apart.

It was mad, but she started to laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

Thames couldn't believe it. It had worked. Lothos was confirming it. Alia hadn't been destroyed; she was in the past. One minute, she'd been there, in the accelerator chamber, and then—

Hold on. Dr. Smith wasn't the only one in the Holding Chamber any more. There was—Alia. Out cold, but still. Alia. Only, Lothos was stating, very plainly, that Alia was in 1965—October 9th, in fact—on a farm near Hillsdale, Minnesota. Exactly where he'd sent her.

Originally, the six-year old daughter of the woman Alia had leaped into had been found buried in the old grain bin where she'd been playing, not too long after she'd lost consciousness. Her absence had been noticed by her mother, and a frantic search had turned her up, and she had been rushed to the doctor but found none too worse for the wear, and she'd gone on to do great things.

Now she wouldn't, providing Alia could keep the searchers away until the critical moment had passed.

Now, Patricia Edwards would suffocate.

And, if they were _very_ lucky, Alia would be able to use the distraction of the search to push the son, a toddler, down the well, or otherwise dispose of him. Thomas Edwards had always looked up to his sister, and Lothos predicted that he would do just as much good in the world where she was dead as he would in the world where she was alive, and it would be better off if both infernal kids never grew up.

Oh, yes, their little experiment, their Project, certainly had potential. And thanks to Dr. Smith, that potential could now be recognized.

"I can get a lock, Zoey," Thames announced, Lothos transmitting his voice through to the observation post where Zoey waited. "Are you going to see if this is all really going to work?"

"It has so far," she replied. "Although that appearance in the Holding Chamber makes me quite glad that I decided to restrain our Dr. Smith after all."

Thames silently agreed, although he doubted Zoey would have been able to fit Dr. Smith onto the rack so easily if he had been conscious. She would have even had a harder time knocking him out if his reflexes had been better, but they'd ensured that he worked hard, and he hadn't been looking like he'd been getting a whole lot of sleep. As this apparently didn't impact his ability to do good work, however, Thames didn't particularly care. It wasn't his job.

Turning his focus from the Holding Chamber, he instead focussed on connecting Zoey, who had made her way into the Imaging Chamber, to Alia. Lothos managed this without difficulty, and Thames set about trying to decipher the readings from the handlink—a task made difficult by Zoey's comments on what she called the scenery.

And Alia's apparent lack of memory.

What was disturbing was that he'd specifically heard Dr. Smith mention memory loss, although he'd needed to convey that concept in twenty words instead of two.

No matter. He had other things to do. With one last glance at the unconscious people in the Holding Chamber, Thames pulled up a file on Karen Edwards and began reading it off to Zoey.

* * *

The Doctor groaned, and then decided that movement made it worse. Mentally gathering himself, he started to relax his muscles as best he could. It was the tension that did it, knotting his muscles together, only to have them pulled apart, creating more pain and more tension and— Still. He had better things to dwell on. How exactly he'd ended up in this position, for one. He hadn't even seen it coming. Well, he'd expected _something_, but, judging by his aching skull, the blow had been once his back had been turned.

Besides, it appeared that he could get out of this much more quickly if he befriended whoever was currently wearing Alia's aura. The figure was stirring, after all. The Doctor pasted his best grin on his face. "Hello," he called gently. "Are you all right?" A silly question, but one humans always seemed to ask, even when the answer was obvious, and he felt it best to conform, given the current circumstances.

"W-what?" The leapee looked around in alarm. "Where am I? How did I get here? I'm…I'm not... Am I?"

"Shshsh," the Doctor cut in. The wild eyes found him, widening even more. "Don't worry. I can help. I'm the Doctor. Do you remember your name?"

"Karen," the woman answered. "Karen…Karen…. I don't know. I don't remember! Why can't I remember?" She started to cry.

"Hey, hey, look at me," the Doctor called. "Look at me, come on, that's it, look at me." He had her attention again. "I promise that I can help you," he said, very slowly, very clearly, "but I'm going to need a bit of help from you first. Can you do that for me?" She nodded. "Good. Now, there should be a latch up towards my right shoulder—my right, your left—and…." The Doctor continued walking the woman through the release process, distracting her from her current worries.

When he was finally free, he took a moment to stretch. "Right, then," he said, nodding to her. "Karen. Good to meet you. You don't happen to know the date, would you? If you don't know the day, well, I'm not too particular. Month, year—that sort of thing would be helpful."

"I can't…." Karen shook her head. "I don't know. I can't remember."

"Try," the Doctor advised. "Don't push yourself. Just…see what comes."

"It was harvest," Karen finally answered, though the fact that she was talking about it as if it was past tense made the Doctor suspect she _did _think that she had died, or at least that this, now, was something surreal, something that wasn't happening. "1965. Better yield than we'd expected; we didn't have enough space for it all. Harry put some of his oats in one of the old granaries. I remember that, because little Tommy was crying because…because…." She stopped. "I don't remember my daughter's name. I know I have a daughter, but I can't remember her name."

The Doctor did his best to console her. Blimey, he had to pity Sam if this is what he went through each time he leaped. Though, the repetition in the process would probably allow him to recall some of the information he used most often, along with whatever random facts dwelled in his mind. Still, the poor man didn't even remember his wife. Granted, that may be because she hadn't _been _his wife until after one of his earlier leaps.

Bit hard to say. He hadn't done too much research into that. He'd had a little time to try to dig up what he could of Alia's past leaps before he came here, given whatever Ziggy had gleaned from the connection they'd had since the dual leap—the dual leap that, at the moment, was in jeopardy. Troublesome thing, splicing. It'd almost be easier if he didn't know how things were supposed to turn out. At least then he could work cleanly on each parallel, not try to fix it from one side because the other side was twisted up in the effects of what was, or rather, what would be.

One thing that he'd gathered, in his brilliantly clever way, was that on Alia's first few leaps, she'd been…difficult. She hadn't actually managed to do everything they'd sent her in to do. Except _now_, if his instincts were correct, she was—if only because _he_ had opened his great big gob and told that she _had_ to do what they told her. Well, of course she did, if history was to be kept on track…so to speak. But not quite so _soon_. Which is why he really wanted to know whatever Karen could tell him, because he would have to intervene, as soon as he got out of here.

Trouble was, he'd have to find a way to intervene and still let the people at this Project think they'd won.

He had a feeling that by the time Karen got back, she wouldn't particularly like what she found, whether or not he managed to find the right autumn day in 1965 in—

"Sorry," the Doctor began, "but you don't happen to remember where your farm is, do you?"

"Minnesota," Karen replied, sniffling a bit. "Near Hillsbrook. Hillsdale. I don't know."

She was going to start crying again if he didn't say anything. "Look, I'm going to make sure you get home, okay? I'll get you back home. But to do that, I'm afraid that I've got to leave you here alone. Will you be all right with that?"

"Why can't you stay with me?"

"I'm afraid I can't do what I need to do from here," the Doctor answered carefully, "and I can't promise to get you back home safely unless you stay in this room." He saw Karen's quick glance, and added, "It's not as bad as it looks."

"You were strapped," she protested, with the most vigour he'd seen out of her yet, "to _that_, and you weren't able to get out."

She's quick, he noted. And probably now slipping back into her own personality, after being shaken up as she'd been. Or perhaps she was channelling the fiery side Alia seemed to hide so well in his presence. "Well, yes," he allowed, "but only because someone put me in there, and I'm going to lock the door when I go out, so no one else will be able to come back in except for me. How's that?"

"How do I know that I can trust you?"

Well, that could easily be bits of Alia talking, even if everything else had been Karen through and through. The Doctor offered her another grin. "My trustworthy face?" he ventured. She didn't look amused, so he added, "Really, I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice. But, if you'd prefer that I stayed for a short spell, and it will have to be short, I will."

Karen shook her head. "No. Not if it means that I can go back to my family more quickly. And if this is all just some crazy dream, well, perhaps I'm more likely to wake up when I'm alone."

"If this were a lucid dream," the Doctor replied, "you could wake up right now. Or, you could shift it to be with your family anyhow. Still. Yes. Going." He smiled at her. "Thanks. For…getting me out of there." He nodded towards the rack. "Don't think I would have fancied still being there when they came back for me." He saw her shift uneasily. "No worries! I promise to lock the door behind me."

It was just as well Karen had begun thinking this was all a dream; he wouldn't have to explain the sonic screwdriver to her now. That, ultimately, let him slip out a good deal faster than he would have otherwise. He still wasn't entirely comfortable leaving her behind, but he didn't have a choice. At least she wouldn't wander off. He'd made sure of that.

He paused outside the main control room, listening. From what he could tell, this leap of theirs was going off a good deal better than Sam's first leap had. It was targeted, for one—thanks to him. They'd be able to retrieve Alia in the end, and seeing all they put her through beforehand, they'd probably have an easier time convincing her of what had happened than Al had had convincing Sam. If they were successful now, even when they hadn't been the first time through, then it would be because of him. And if they _weren't_ successful, well, either he'd have to have another talking to with Alia, or it would, again, be because of him.

For someone who didn't overly _try_ to impact history, he sure seemed to have a knack for it.

Still, didn't mean he should be spending his time hanging outside the Control Room, especially when the parallel-hybrid computer within _knew_ of his little escape from the Holding Chamber and hadn't alerted Thames. The Doctor would feel happier if he had. He didn't particularly like questioning the motives of computers. Sure, it was nice to have a bit of an outward change, what with the computer not _immediately_ trying to destroy him, but it was a bit unnerving to realize how quickly a bunch of little humans had managed to contrive a machine that would have him deep in thought for longer than a minute or so.

Really, most evil machines weren't at all imaginative. Global—or universal—domination tended to be foremost on their minds, or their processing units, if you so preferred. There was the occasional one bent on his capture and vivisection or dissection, depending on what uses they had planned for him, or simply his destruction, or the odd one or two that focussed on other people, both famous and infamous and just plain ordinary. He didn't recall coming across one that simply wanted to, oh, make that perfect cup of tea—or at least not one that hadn't felt it necessary to destroy the competition first.

He _had_ met a couple that had used his own intelligence against him. Like Lothos had, just now. Because while he had been standing there pondering the destructiveness that was felt necessary by evil, the conniving computer had set up lasers and whatnot—a force field of sorts. Still. Nothing that could hold him. It _was_ still only the 20th century, after all. They hadn't figured out deadlock seals.

The all-too-human backup, well…he might have a _little_ bit more trouble with that.

"Hello," the Doctor grinned, waving at them. "I seem to be—"

"Silence," snapped the first man. Bit more forceful than the guard at the gate had been, the Doctor noted. Less talkative, too, judging by how he seemed to like speaking with his gun. He pointed it at the Doctor and then down the hallway, and the Doctor knew now was not the time to play the dunce, so he went along with it.

He'd at least heard enough between the relay of data Thames was giving Zoey and Zoey's comments to either Thames or Alia to know the date, and what Alia was set to change. Something he could most definitely not allow to happen. At least, not as planned. He couldn't let those children die, not now.

But perhaps the Evil Leaper Project would settle for a couple of disappearances, if he played his cards right.

He could always encourage the children to change their names, if he found himself having to take them across the country.

No, no, that wouldn't work—the names just meant that this Project could track them. What they _did_, well, that was subject to change, if the circumstances of their lives changed too much.

Perhaps skipping a year would do.

Bit strange, since the children wouldn't have aged, and they were young enough that that would be noticeable, but, well, it was better than _completely_ robbing them of their family and their family of them.

He was sure Jackie Tyler would agree. She'd experienced that. Only by a _teensy-weensy_ miscalculation, but she'd go through a year of panicked searching if she knew she'd find Rose safe and well at the end of it again, wouldn't she?

Or perhaps six months would be plausible enough, if he hid the children's files.

He'd play it by ear.

* * *

"Oh, this is a positive delight!" Zoey crowed as Thames centred on her on Alia, looking around her. "Quite realistic. Alia, darling, are you ready?"

Alia was staring at her, looking as if she was clutching the damp dishtowel she held for dear life. "You know who I am?" she whispered, keeping her voice low, glancing at the toddler at her feet who was happily banging on a pot with a wooden spoon, oblivious to Alia's distress.

"Of course I know who you are." Zoey looked her partner up and down, frowning a bit. "And I would hope that you do."

"I thought I did," Alia answered carefully, slowly laying the dishtowel on the counter, "but now I'm not so sure."

"Well, come on out then; I'll give you the grand tour." Zoey laughed a bit. "Not that there's much, but I can show you the highlights, shall I? I'm afraid we're a bit far from the men to get the best views possible, which is a shame, since they're quite delectable."

Alia still looked wary, but she nodded. "Patsy," she called, "come watch your brother. I've got to step out for a moment."

"It would save you some time if you let the kid wander off himself," Zoey pointed out, "but I suppose you have to keep up appearances. And that's not all that effective, is it; he might wander back."

"Listen," Alia hissed, stepping out the door and—needlessly—holding it open for Zoey. "What's going on? Everyone else is calling me Karen and Mommy and I didn't even—"

"You don't remember?" Zoey rolled her eyes. "Oh, that blasted Dr. Smith was right, then, was he? You're on assignment, Alia. You've a job to do, and then you can go back home."

"But I'm—"

"I don't have time to answer all your questions," Zoey cut in harshly. "You're here right now, masquerading as Karen Edwards, wife of the delicious Harry Edwards and mother to his two insufferable offspring. They're the reason you're here, Alia. The children."

"What about my children?" Alia asked slowly, as if she didn't want to hear the answer.

"My, my," Zoey smirked. "And your true nature comes out. Protective, are you? You've been their mother for all of, what, ten minutes?"

"Since I woke up," Alia retorted, "two days ago."

Zoey frowned. "Really? Unusual. Thames, see what Lothos makes of the discrepancy. I want to know whether Dr. Smith missed something or tampered with it."

"Who are you talking to?" Alia asked. "And who are you, anyhow? And what's this experiment all about?"

"I'm your partner, Alia. Zoey. Remember that at least, even if you forget the rest. Though I should hope your training stays with you, when it comes time to use it."

"Training?" Alia repeated doubtfully.

"Those children, Alia, must die." Zoey was not one to mince words when it didn't suit her purpose, and her tone was harsh. There was no need to let Alia live in a fanciful world, after all. It would only waste their time. "In the original history, the girl, Patricia, is found before she suffocates in the grain over—" Zoey scanned the yard, and then pointed towards the appropriate bin on the hill "—there. Your task should be simple enough. You just need to make sure she's not found until it's too late."

"And Tommy follows her, then?'

"Heavens, no. If the girl's so protective of her brother, as you imply, do you think she'd let him follow her? No, Lothos simply projects that if he lives, he'll establish some new organization in his sister's honour, and we simply cannot have that. If you come this way, however, you'll see they've got an old well boarded up on their land, but the wood's fairly rotten, wouldn't you say? I'm not sure if it would even take a child's weight."

"Harry's fenced that off," Alia said, trailing after Zoey. "We weren't going to risk letting the children near it."

"Fences can be broken, Alia, dear," Zoey answered. "And do stop acting like you are a part of this family, because you aren't."

"You really mean for me to murder my—Karen's—children?" Alia asked, astounded.

"Alia, it's your assignment. You will complete it, or you won't get home. And then you'll be trapped here."

Alia was quiet for a moment. "I don't remember much of my home."

Zoey quickly surveyed the yard. "It's a sight different from this wreck," she said, noting the rampant weeds and rusting machinery in the bush, the leaning buildings on the hill and the deadwood in the shelterbelt. "Just remember your assignment, Alia. Lothos estimates that Patricia will have suffocated by about two o'clock, and the search originally began an hour earlier, when Harry returned home to pick up his lunch. Lunch I imagine you are supposed to be making?" Alia flushed, so Zoey continued, "I'll check in with you later, then. See if you can come up with a plan to effectively complete your assignment. I don't think you'd like the consequences if you do poorly."

Zoey studied the handlink for a moment and found the appropriate button to open the door to the Imaging Chamber. "Good luck," she called, stepping out and leaving the door to close behind her.

"Lothos hasn't found anything yet to account for the time discrepancy," Thames informed her when she entered the main control room. "But he has reported that Dr. Smith escaped the Holding Chamber with Karen Edwards's help, but has been apprehended and is now being held in one of the Observation Chambers again. Number three."

"And Karen Edwards?"

"Remains in the Holding Chamber. Shaken, but stable. Seems to be taking it about as well as Alia."

"And how, exactly, did Dr. Smith escape?"

"He corrupted Lothos's circuits," Thames replied. "It won't happen again."

"I should hope not." Zoey checked the display screen. "I'll have a bit of a chat with him, then. Keep running scenarios through Lothos; see what Alia's best options are." Zoey waited for Thames's acknowledgement before setting off to visit Dr. Smith. She knew he knew more than he was telling, and she was intending to find out precisely what that was.

* * *

A/N: I'm not entirely sure what sort of year 1965 was for the farmers, but we'll pretend it was a good crop despite September snows or weather of that sort, shall we? Also, I really had no idea what to do for Alia's first leap, though I'm fairly certain that things on that first leap would have gone less smoothly than the next ones, so I'm going to say that they're a bit more flexible for this first trial than they might be later on, as they'd then know how things work.


	6. Chapter 6

"I have to say," the Doctor began when Zoey entered the room, "that I'd favour a Waiting Room over this, even if I'm not exactly fond of waiting."

"This is a waiting room," Zoey replied sharply.

"No," the Doctor countered, 'it's an _observation_ room. Slight difference."

"Either way, you're still left to wait." Zoey looked him up and down, noting that even if he had been strapped down earlier, he wasn't now. "You might as well tell us. How did you escape the Holding Chamber?"

"Oh, you don't want to know about _that_," the Doctor said. "I can tell you a number of other things that are much more interesting."

"I can wait here all day," Zoey informed him in a matter-of-fact voice, "but I don't expect you'd like that."

"Well, neither would you," the Doctor pointed out. "You can't miss Alia's first leap, can you? What if she gets cold feet?"

"Then she'll be stuck there."

"Oh, well, you know that's not true. You can pull her back any time you like. And you don't gain anything from keeping her there, not if she's lost her opportunity. You're better off moving on."

"Is that your opinion?"

"Opinion and fact. Good combination, don't you think? Much better than opinion and falsehood. Of course, there's a time and a place."

"You don't _really_ think that I'm simply here for some verbal parley, do you?"

"That's another thing," the Doctor mused. "Y'see, I know you've got cameras in these rooms, and two-way mirrors, and everything else you thought would be handy, but you still came directly here instead of observing me, as I would have thought would've been your purpose. Why is that? Because you don't think you'd _gain_ anything from just looking? Have you had enough of that? Or is it because you don't know who to trust any more, and you know you can't trust me, but perhaps that knowledge is grounds enough to trust me with other distrust and—"

"What I _think_," Zoey cut in crisply, "is none of your concern. And I'm certainly not here to listen to you prattle on about trust and deceit. I sim—"

"Ah, there, see? I didn't even mention deceit. You did. Ergo, that's why you're here, right?"

"If I'm to pretend I'm interested in deceit," Zoey shot back, "we had better be discussing yours."

"Moi?" The Doctor presented her his very best shocked face—well, the very best one that he could fake, at least. He had no doubt he could look far more shocked when he really was shocked, an occurrence that wasn't as rare as he would have thought, given his past experiences. "What makes you think _I'm_ being deceitful?" Seeing that Zoey wasn't about to bite, however, he relented. "Oh, all right then. But I expect you know how I escaped anyhow. Karen helped me."

"She may have helped you out of the rack," Zoey retorted, "but she certainly wouldn't have had the resources to escape the Holding Chamber."

"And you think that I can without Lothos knowing?" The Doctor shifted his features to one of surprise.

"I believe that you have had sufficient time to learn the mechanics of our facility, Dr. Smith, and I believe that you would use that knowledge in a futile attempt to get the better of us."

"Really? Lothos included?"

"You've spent time working on him," responded Zoey with a glare. "There's any number of things you could have done to cover your tracks."

"True," the Doctor agreed amiably. "And did I, do you think?"

"What I _think_," Zoey snapped, "is that if you truly are against us, you'll change your tune when Alia's successful."

"If she's successful, I might, yeah," the Doctor admitted.

"Oh, she'll be successful." Zoey smiled. "I wouldn't worry about that."

"No? Well, at least someone's confident. Thames doesn't seem to be, does he? But then, he doesn't have the same confidence in Lothos that you do."

Zoey smirked. "If you're trying to get me to doubt the competency of my own people, I suggest you go about it a different way."

"Oh, but I'm not, am I? Because they're not _your_ people. This isn't _your_ experiment. It's someone else's pet project, isn't it, and you've just taken the lead, haven't you? You're just someone's _puppet_."

"I am _not_—"

"Oh, but I think you are, Zoey." The Doctor levelled her with a steady gaze. "You aren't calling the shots, not really. Someone else is holding all the strings. And if they say jump, you have to jump. Just like Alia has to for you. And you don't like being controlled, do you? But you put up with it. Because you have to. That's the only way you'll get anything out of this at all. Isn't that right?"

"Don't think we're finished here," Zoey snapped.

"Wouldn't dream of it," the Doctor called cheerily as she left. Really, it wasn't so hard to drive people away, not if you knew which buttons to push. It should give him time to think. He ought to have sown the seeds of doubt carefully enough to keep Zoey from sending Thames in directly—or anyone else, for that matter. Because she'd have a bone to pick with him by the time they were through, that was certain enough. And perhaps, if he was _very_ lucky, she'd let slip what happened with Alia's first leap, and he'd know what he'd have to do, once he got out of here.

Shouldn't be too hard, if he put his mind to it.

* * *

Alia had been sifting through her memories all morning. She recalled a bit of the experiment, once she put her mind to it. Time travel. She wasn't in her own time. And Zoey, her partner, was a hologram. Whenever her own time was, they had sufficient technology to allow for that. And the purpose of her time travel was, according to Zoey, to complete certain assignments. These assignments, as far as Alia could tell, consisted of destruction. She was sent to destroy something. And all her training, or what she recalled of it, was to prepare her for that.

She recalled enough to know that she would not, as Zoey had assured her, like the consequences of failing to complete her assignment.

Consequently, she hadn't forbidden Patsy from playing outside, and the girl had set off to happily explore the yard yet again. Alia couldn't remember much of her own childhood, now, but she was certain she'd lost the carefree innocence long before she should have. She, however, had survived her childhood. Patricia and Thomas Edwards would not.

Alia had finally set out to break the makeshift fence by the old well, deciding that if she let the cattle out, the destruction may go unnoticed—or at least that the cattle would serve as a significant enough distraction to allow for poor Patsy to be left alone for the sufficient amount of time. And an opened gate, or the carelessness of it, could be blamed on one of the farm hands. Better them than her. They wouldn't be tortured for the act, whereas she, if she did not commit it, very well could be—providing, of course, that her memory, faulty as it seemed to be at the moment, served her well in that particular aspect.

It was while she was deliberating this that she noticed the man.

He seemed out of place in the farmyard, though admittedly not as much as Zoey had, in her bright colours. The man wore a rumpled brown suit, but from what she could see of his unruly hair, he was not likely to be a businessman of any sort. Perhaps he was a family friend. She'd have greet him kindly enough and follow his lead, seeing whether he called her Karen or Mrs. Edwards or if he simply began speaking to her as an old friend might.

"Hello," she called, walking up to him.

He turned, and for a moment all he did was look at her. She shifted uneasily. Finally he said, "Hello, Alia."

He was from the Project, then.

Thames, perhaps, to check up on her? Zoey had mentioned a Thames. She couldn't recall what he looked like at the moment, but she knew he worked with Lothos, and she thought perhaps she could place this man bending over Lothos's many controls.

"Where's Patsy at the moment?" he asked.

"In the yard."

"And is—"

"She hasn't been gone long enough, as I'm sure you would know," Alia cut in.

The man shook his head. "I mean to ask after Tommy."

"He's still safe at the moment. If Zoey's asking, I've my plans to change that."

The man didn't say anything for a moment. "She's not," he finally replied, "but she might, next time she sees you. Still. I've a poor memory, me. Remind me, these children, their deaths are to prevent them from going on and doing great and wonderful things, correct?"

"Perhaps," Alia answered, "but for all I know, the intention is to break the parents." She needed to distance herself from the situation. Zoey was right. She was not the children's mother; she was their murderer. A murderess of innocence.

"Oh, right, should've thought of that," the man said. "Still. Disappearances would count as the same, right?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Alia replied, wondering why the man had been sent to question her. "May I ask why you are here?"

"Oh, just looking," the man answered. "Seeing how things worked out for you."

"I imagine that the information would be sufficient on your end," Alia answered sharply.

"Well, you would," the man commented, looking around. She waited for him to elaborate, but he did not. Instead, he added, "I would, ah, appreciate it if you didn't mention seeing me here. To me or anyone else."

Don't ask questions, she'd been told. She'd tried, and she hadn't gotten any straight answers out of him. She gave up. It was a test, most likely. She would need to pass it, or she'd be punished. "All right," she agreed softly.

He grinned. "Brilliant. Thank you."

He turned and wandered off, vaguely heading in the direction of the hill, and after a moment, she turned her attention to the task at hand. It was curious, yes, but curiosity killed the cat, and she needed to survive, no matter what it took. And she would.

* * *

The time passed all too quickly for Alia. She'd sabotaged the fence about the well, she'd opened the gate for the cattle, she'd left Patsy all on her own, and now she was leading Tommy out of the house while her husband—that is, Karen's husband—tried to round up the cows before too much damage occurred. She didn't mention that Patricia was out, and she'd played the role of concerned mother for Tommy well enough that this wasn't questioned.

"I must say, you seem to be doing well so far."

Alia nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard Zoey. "Don't do that," she hissed, glancing back at the hologram of her partner.

"Well, what would have me do, darling? Wear a bell around my neck?"

"Wouldn't put it past you," Alia muttered. Checking herself, she asked, "What is Lothos predicting?"

"If things keep going as they are," Zoey replied with a smile, "we shouldn't have any trouble at all in the future."

"What do you mean?" Alia asked, picking Tommy up and balancing him on her hip as she walked.

"Well, your assignments aren't always going to be like this," Zoey reminded her. "We do need a bit of variety to keep it exciting."

"Do you have a list?" Alia wondered, not quite able to hide the disgust from her voice.

"I shouldn't think that it concerns you." Zoey moved ahead to the well, ending that thread of the conversation. When Alia caught up to her, she said, "This one's gone dry, probably too shallow, but it's still a good twenty feet down. Lothos says there's only a 12.8 percent chance that the kid would survive the fall, and anyhow no one would hear him crying in this ruckus, would they?"

"You mean you can hear things, too, and not just see them?" Alia asked, surprised.

Zoey laughed. "You don't expect us to skimp on the details, do you? What if you missed something? I'd rather not have you failing to complete your mission simply because you missed something I could have picked up on. That's why I'm your partner, Alia. To help you and to teach you."

Alia tested the rotting cover of the well with her foot. "This certainly doesn't look like it'll take much weight," she commented, even though Zoey had said much the same thing last time they were out here together. The reality of what she was about to do was starting to weigh on her.

"That's the _point_, Alia, dear," Zoey shook her head. "Really. There are worse things than this, I can assure you. Now, get on with it."

Tommy started to squirm in Alia's arms, as if he knew what was coming. She had to set him down. "It took me the full two days to get him to come to me, you know," Alia said, looking up at Zoey from where she held Karen's youngest in place. "He kept crying otherwise. He knew I was a stranger."

"And what did the others say, pray tell?"

"I told them he might be coming down with something," Alia answered simply. She broke through the wood with one hand, but couldn't hear the pieces hit the bottom. Zoey was right; it was too noisy. And the cattle weren't the least of it all.

"And what's your story going to be when they ask you where your precious baby boy is?"

"I realized Patricia hadn't turned up for lunch," Alia answered, "and went to search for her when she didn't come when I called. People are careless when they're concerned. Harry will just think Karen forgot to close the door because she was in such a panicked rush."

"And when they find him, it'll be too late," Zoey finished, smirking. "Brilliant, darling. Quite good enough for your first assignment. But do let's hurry this up, shall we? We haven't got all day."

In for a penny, in for a pound. Alia pushed the toddler to send him reeling over the lip of the well and down into its depths. She didn't stay to strain her ears to hear whether or not the impact had killed him instantly or whether he would instead die slowly. "Why don't you go check on Patricia?" she asked Zoey, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'll catch up with you in a moment. I need to make sure things are set at the house. It has to be believable."

"Lothos estimates Patricia only has four minutes and twenty-three seconds left," Zoey reported, looking pleased.

"I'd sooner you go and check to be sure," Alia shot back. "If they find her quickly enough, they could still revive her."

Zoey rolled her eyes. "All right, darling, but you don't need to worry so. Lothos tells me you have everything under control."

Alia watched as Zoey hit a few buttons on the handlink and then moved on. She hated this, but she didn't see much of a choice. She doubted there would be a time when she'd be able to pick the better of the two options, the nobler one, the one where she didn't necessarily come out on top. Still. She wasn't given a choice now, and there was no chance to redeem herself, not after this leap.

She wondered how long it would be before they sent her out again.

* * *

"You'll be pleased to know," Zoey said upon entering Observation Chamber Three, "that Alia's mission was successful."

"Oh, I'm tickled, believe you me," the Doctor replied, keeping his voice serious. "But what did you really want?"

"Your programming, Dr. Smith, is faulty."

"Is it?" the Doctor asked, losing the serious tone. "Shouldn't be. Double-checked. Triple-checked. _Quadruple_-checked. Did Alia not leap out, then?"

"Oh, we have her back here safe and sound," Zoey answered. "But according to her, it had taken us an additional forty-eight hours on her side to acquire a lock."

The Doctor shrugged. "Temporal interference."

"Is that your excuse for incompetence?"

"_Incompetence_?" the Doctor repeated indignantly. "She's alive, isn't she? Alive and well and breathing and distinctly _not_ torn apart?"

"She wasn't completely intact," Zoey pointed out. "Some of her memories were missing."

"So she was a little Swiss-cheesed, that's all. They're _memories_. You throw a primitive, unshielded mind defenceless into the side winds of the Vortex and reduce it and the body down to atoms and reassemble everything again flawlessly, and I'll tip my hat to you—or I would, if I had one." The Doctor sighed. "Look, it's not permanent. Everything'll come back."

"And how would you know that?" Zoey challenged.

"I'm clever," the Doctor retorted.

"Your response to everything, it seems."

"Perhaps you'll just have to accept that no matter how advanced your technology is, it's not advanced enough to allow you to travel through time without repercussions," the Doctor shot back. "I've done what I can with I have to minimize those, but I can't get rid of it all together. It's an _experimental _project. Some things are bound to go wrong. You have to accept it, and if you can't fix it, you work with it. And the memory loss, before you ask, is something you have to work with. It's not fixable. It's inherent. And it won't matter how many second opinions you get, because I'm right."

"My, my. Aren't we testy."

The Doctor bit back a retort. No, he wasn't used to being cooped up underground, but admitting that wouldn't help matters in the least. She'd only use it against him. He kept quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, he asked a question instead. "Do you believe me, now, when I say I mean to help you?"

"I'm still waiting to find out why you've shown any interest in helping us at all," Zoey replied evenly.

"I told you. I thought I could get something out of it if I helped." He didn't care to elaborate, and if he put it that way, she was more likely to believe him.

"And have you?"

"I don't know," the Doctor admitted. "But I've done what I can here."

"And you want to leave, do you?" Zoey smirked. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen, Dr. Smith."

"Y'see, that's another thing," the Doctor said, jumping on her words. "You know I'm not John Smith, but you persist in calling me that—why?"

"You call me Zoey," she replied, laughing slightly. "We don't place as a high a stock in names here as the rest of the world does, Dr. Smith, as I'm sure you've realized. We don't require your name. We require your knowledge. And I have a feeling we've only gleaned a little bit of it."

The Doctor kept silent, waiting for Zoey to continue. She didn't. "Let me see Alia before you leap her out again," he said finally.

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I'm a doctor," he answered, his tone sharper than before. "You can't expect to access everything with that little chip of yours."

"We have other people tending to her."

"They don't know what to look for," the Doctor insisted.

"Then tell them," Zoey suggested, shrugging. "I'm not stopping you from doing that."

"You let me see her before, in hopes that I might let something slip. Why not now?"

"Because you're too careful," Zoey responded. "You don't let your guard down. We've watched you."

"You can't leap her again before I've examined her, not safely," the Doctor persisted. "You have to let me out of here."

"Oh, I'll let you out of here, all right," Zoey agreed, smiling. "But you aren't going anywhere near Alia. You're going to be spending the next forty-eight hours in isolation."

"Let me guess, forty-eight hours because that's how long Alia was left out of the loop?"

"You won't be sounding so chipper, Dr. Smith, when you get out of there."

"Why, because it'll be dark the entire time, the temperature sufficiently low to induce a mild state of hypothermia, no food, no water, and, oh, right, how could I forget, the fact that you're planning to chain me to the wall?"

"The records," Zoey informed him coolly, "don't mention all the highlights. I believe you'll find it a touch worse than that."

"Lovely." The Doctor crossed his arms. "And you're going to get me to come with you calmly, you think?"

"Quite." Zoey smiled at him. Raising her voice, she called, "Thames, activate that new chemical compound release in the good Dr. Smith's chip."

"What? _What_? What compound? What chemical? How'd you—? _What_?" The Doctor stared at her, shocked. He'd thought it was just a tracking chip. He hadn't bothered to analyze it; why would he? He could control it _without_ analyzing it. But if what she was saying was _true_….

"As Thames said," Zoey repeated with a wider smile, "you apparently didn't do as much research on us as you'd thought."

"Oh, that's just not fair," the Doctor whispered.

Zoey smirked. "Whoever said we were playing fair?"


	7. Chapter 7

Alia fell into the rhythm of leaping. In and out, in and out, like a needle and thread, except she wasn't bringing things together—she was taking them apart. She didn't think about it too much anymore. She just did as she was told. It was easier that way. Most of the time, Zoey would tell her how to go about it, whatever she had to do. But sometimes she had an idea of her own, which Zoey encouraged, and the assignments after those times never seemed quite as hard as the ones which had come before.

Perhaps it was her imagination.

The material of the mission aside, not much changed. The memory loss was consistent, but never as bad as it had been the first time, and she could generally recollect what she had been told. Zoey always turned up shortly after she'd leaped in and briefed her on who she was and what she was there to do. She didn't spend much time back at the Project itself; she barely returned from one assignment before she was sent on the next. It was almost as if they were making up for lost time—a laughable concept for a time travel experiment.

She wondered, occasionally, about the man she'd encountered on her first leap. It wasn't Thames; she knew that now. It was Dr. Smith—or rather, the Doctor, as he insisted on being called. But what confused her was _how_ she'd come to meet him while on assignment. She hadn't dared to mention it to anyone, especially now that she'd kept it a secret for a spell, for they would punish her as much as they would punish him if they found out about the illicit visit.

She didn't recall seeing him holding a handlink, but her mind did provide him with a shadow in her memory. For that matter, she also remembered seeing him leaving tracks in the long grass. Absurd, of course; a hologram wouldn't be leaving a trail of broken grass stems.

But he had.

And that wasn't possible.

Hadn't he said they couldn't be leaping two people about in time at once? And even if they could, what would be gained by sending him there? And he hadn't appeared particularly Swiss-cheesed, unless she counted the questions he'd asked, but those weren't the sorts of questions _she'd_ been asking when she'd first realized what was going on, and—

No, no, she was being silly. Of course he wasn't a leaper, like her. She'd recognized him. She wouldn't have recognized him if he'd leaped into somebody. He had to be a hologram. How he managed it, she wouldn't know, but if he'd managed to get the experiment to work in the first place, perhaps it wasn't so far of a stretch to believe that he could manage to rig up a hologram without a neural connection.

He'd probably had the handlink in his pocket. He'd had his hands in his pockets. And he surely wouldn't have one as large as Zoey did if he was trying to be surreptitious when he was making it. Why Lothos would _allow_ it was not something she could fathom at the moment, and as clever as she believed the Doctor to be, she was not sure that he could hoodwink Lothos as well as he thought he could.

She was just imagining the shadow and the bent grass. She knew the mind played tricks like that, filling in holes in memories with this and that. Or perhaps he'd been standing in someone else's tracks and the shadow, if not a trick of the light, had been cast by something else. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for it, anyway. She simply wasn't experienced enough to decipher what that was.

Still, when she finally had worked up the courage to casually ask about Dr. Smith, Zoey's temper had turned. This gave Alia a small measure of relief—if he'd been dead, Zoey wouldn't have that same look in her eye. However troublesome he was for them, he still had potential, and that was the only thing keeping him alive. Alia knew that if he ever crossed the line, if he ever became just a bit too troublesome to bother dealing with, then he'd be killed.

Zoey's temper, however, also told Alia that the Doctor wasn't being given a chance to prove his worth. He was being kept somewhere, and she had the unpleasant thought that she knew precisely where. She'd been in there, once. It hadn't been terribly long, not really, but it had felt like an eternity.

She wondered if he had known that he would end up there. He seemed to know an awful lot, considering the short time he'd been here. He'd told her, a bit, about what leaping would be like. And he had been right, even though she hadn't believed him. The longer she thought about it all, the more questions she had.

Perhaps she ought to see if she could find the Doctor, after she completed her current assignment. Perhaps, then, he'd be able to give her some answers.

* * *

The Doctor would rate the last week or so among the more unpleasant tortures he'd inflicted upon himself. That's not to say that he hadn't put his time in isolation to good use, especially seeing as Zoey had thoughtfully extended the time he was spending in there, although she did love to play around with the temperature and lighting a bit too much for his liking. Still. It gave him time enough to assess his work. Not that he knew precisely how well it had gone, seeing as he still had no information about Alia's leaps, but he was _fairly_ certain that he'd kept history intact. Well, intact in terms of making sure the Evil Leaper Project tore it apart at the appropriate places.

He just hoped that he'd done an adequate job. He'd prefer to have done a brilliant job, and he'd be perfectly happy to have done an ingenious job, but he certainly couldn't settle for anything less than an adequate job.

There was a chance that it wouldn't hold if he hadn't done at least an adequate job.

And, considering his limitations, it was probably adequate at best.

At least, having leaped into himself this time, he wouldn't have to limit how far he went, mentally, when it came to the splicing itself. And he had a TARDIS. Couldn't get to it at the moment, but he didn't need it until he initiated the process.

He'd find out if it had worked then, preparation and splicing alike. Bit hard to tell from here, seeing as he would be trying to compensate for the lack of equipment on the other parallel. But he was nothing if not clever.

He only had one thing left to do—physically, that is—at the Project. He'd have to destroy the retrieval system. If he didn't get rid of that link now, Alia would never be able to leap with Sam when the time came. He knew they'd try to repair it, but they wouldn't be able to fix it, not completely. At best, they'd be able to pull Alia out of her current leap and force her into another. They'd have some measure of control, more than the good people at Project Quantum Leap, but he couldn't change that. From what he understood, they needed to be able to do that, moving Alia from leap to leap. All _he_ had to do was tweak it. And if they _did_ manage to pull her out, and pull her back, they wouldn't be able to hold her there. She'd drift out again. Then, when Sam and Alia finally leaped together, Sam would be cutting the line that tethered her to the Project. Only, they wouldn't know it, so when Alia did finally leap out of the Waiting Room, when it was all said and done, she would be free. She'd leap away, away from the Projects, off the grid, and she'd be free.

Assuming, of course, he hadn't influenced her enough to affect things so that she would never cross paths with Sam in the first place. But he was confident that he hadn't. Mostly. At least if he checked up on how her first leap went, that is, since he knew that shouldn't have been successful. Zoey had said it was, but that's all he knew. He hadn't had a chance to get at Lothos and find out exactly what 'successful' meant.

At this rate, he doubted he would.

He'd have to go there and find out for himself, once he got out of here.

Considering how brilliant he was, he'd been locked up an awful lot in all his regenerations so far.

Still, always a bright side. Like now. Peace and quiet. No need to rush about. Perfect to set out to check up on the timeline. No one would be disturbing him. He could look, prod about, prepare what he could, and even make a few tentative stitches, just to hold things in place.

Trouble was, it was terribly tiring, and he wasn't exactly faced with the ideal conditions in which to replenish his energy.

He did try venturing out now and then, but he never went too far. He didn't want to risk not coming back, which was a distinct possibility in his weakened state. He could go far enough, though, that he could start aligning all the necessary technical details for the splicing. It wasn't a process that could be rushed, and he was careful to take his time. He'd heard about botched attempts at splicing. Never pretty. Some of them ended up as temporal equivalents to black holes. Other times, everything collapsed into the Void. Records of those times tended to be lost, though, given the nature of the incident, so he wasn't precisely sure how common that was.

He had a feeling that was among the things he'd rather not know.

Still, he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on to consciousness, not in this state. Sure, they let him down every once in a while, but only when they wanted to play. Zoey's tongue wasn't nearly as sharp as her knowledge of how to use all their equipment effectively. And, well, this body was better suited to verbal parley than physical confrontations, compared to some he'd had in the past. Not that he ever wanted to go about picking fights. Well, not unless it would save the Earth or the universe or the timeline or something of that sort. But still. He found thumbscrews as painful as the next person, and that was among the more mild tortures Zoey delighted in putting him through.

He hadn't even been alone long enough to take out that infernal chip of theirs. At least not when he had had a free hand. He should have done it earlier, after he'd gotten the thing implanted, but he hadn't wanted to alert them. He'd thought it best to play along. He knew they wouldn't _trust_ him, but he'd thought they'd at least be more accepting of his work if they thought they had gotten the better of him.

He just hadn't expected that they _would_ get the better of him. Not in that way. Perhaps Lothos would come up with something to surprise him, sure. He had been expecting that. Not this.

Not that he'd anticipated Lothos would play along so well, either. He really had to wonder what his motives were. Because it wasn't just learning about him, trying to figure out who he was or where he came from, not any more. It was something else. For all he knew, Lothos suspected the truth. Well, at least a tiny piece of the truth. He'd never know the entire truth. But he might suspect that the real reason Dr. John Smith could turn up without a trace, claiming experience and aptly demonstrating his extensive knowledge, was because he actually had knowledge _born_ from experience.

That was, perhaps, the reason Zoey hadn't tried to kill him yet. At least, not actively. Because she and Thames both knew that Lothos had to be holding something back about him. Well, he at least suspected that they'd assume that before assuming that Lothos was malfunctioning. Or perhaps he was lucky and they simply thought him clever enough to work around all of Lothos's blocks. He'd been sorely tempted. It would have made his work much quicker, skirting Lothos's defences and setting up a few inhibitors of his own. But timing was everything, and he couldn't skimp on the details.

Too much depended on them, those devilish details.

Besides, he didn't want to give them any more technology than he had to, and, perception filter or not, he wasn't about to leave _anything_ behind that they might conceivably find and put to use, not unless he absolutely had to.

But for now, well, perhaps he could risk slipping into a healing coma. He certainly needed it, and he'd wake with a clear head. He didn't fancy leaving himself defenceless, but he knew that if he was in terrible danger, he would wake up. He'd have a horrendous headache, and he probably wouldn't stay conscious long, but he ought to be able to get himself out of whatever situation he was in in the time he had.

Of course, they'd realize he'd meddled with the chip, then, if they tried checking up on him, or taking him for another round in the Holding Chamber. It would read that he was sleeping, but they wouldn't be able to wake him, and they'd be hard pressed to find so much as a pulse in the state he'd be in, what with everything slowed down while his body repaired itself.

He could only resist temptation for so long. He had a strong mind, sure, but his body would eventually revolt. It would shut down, whether he tried to stop it or not. And if it came to _that_, well, he risked _not_ waking up if he was in danger, because he'd be using his reserve trying to resist it in the first place. And he didn't fancy risking that, not where he was now, and especially not when he was so far from the TARDIS and he hadn't been able to check up on her in person since he'd left. What if they found him, thought him dead, and disposed of his body? If they actually managed to kill him, he wouldn't necessarily have enough energy to regenerate. He'd be dead. For good. He somehow didn't think he'd be lucky enough to scrape his way back into a new body with only temporary memory loss again, not after spending any amount of time in limbo, especially if he was in a worse condition than this when he entered it.

And he wasn't particularly keen on dying. Or regenerating. That would be rewriting things too quickly and definitively, setting events beyond any brilliant manoeuvres on his part. His other self would shatter instantly, of course, and, if he did manage to survive and regenerate, he'd be left trying to sort out where the splinters buried themselves. If he was lucky, he'd be able to extract them without causing any damage, or at least not _too_ too much. But he wouldn't be able to splice the timeline together, and this parallel would terminate, taking him with it if he didn't get off of it in time. And even if he _did_, the other parallel would be altered, anyhow, since it had been reflecting the products of the splicing—splicing that wouldn't have happened, causing the parallel to revert to its diminished state. And he wasn't sure how many things would hold in that state, because he wasn't completely sure what every event depended upon, and he hadn't had time to explore the intricacies of the entire parallel and the interactions of the people and the interlock patterns of the events and—

Well. It wouldn't be pleasant. Ripping apart established events never was. That in itself would make the other parallel much more unstable than its shifting state alone. Its stability was what kept it together, made it the stronger parallel. That's why that parallel reflected what was supposed to happen, rather than what would, if he didn't succeed in his little stint of temporal patchwork. But its stability depended upon the patterns entwined within the timeline itself, the way the different lives wove themselves together, creating a stronger braid, a stronger line of events, which interacted with other timelines, wreathing isolated incidents together, tying everything up. And if he couldn't interweave the stronger elements of this parallel into the other parallel, that stability wouldn't exist.

The other parallel would eventually follow this one. Just not as quickly, and probably not as painlessly. But its termination would still be premature, compared to what it would be if the parallels were spliced and the timeline held together.

He couldn't afford to make an error, let alone a few little mistakes here and there, since the effects of those would accumulate all too quickly.

He hoped that he was on edge because he was exhausted. It wasn't so much that he was under pressure—he worked so well under pressure; he was always one to think on his feet, and he was quite brilliant at it, if he did say so himself. It was more…. Well, he was worried. Because he thought he imagined that something was grating on him. And he had to hope that it _was_ imagined. He certainly preferred that to the alternative.

The alternative meant that his other self was likely too far along to benefit from the splicing. Too many splinters were exposed, and despite the careful efforts he knew he'd have not to rattle things about too much, something could get jarred. And the edges of those splintering shards were _sharp_. It would be all too easy for them to cut something.

Trouble was, the alternative—that he _wasn't_ imagining things—was the more likely explanation. He was more sensitive to it in his current state. He didn't have the energy to simply block it out, ignore it, push it to the back of his mind. It stayed out front. To prey on him. Eating away, slowly, patiently, eroding and wearing down his defences, draining his energy.

Perhaps he'd be better off to give into temptation after all, just this once.

But he wasn't sure if he could risk it, not with everything that was at stake. It wouldn't take much for something to go wrong. Good intentions were often turned sour enough by the same force that would wreck havoc on him. Even if he meant well, which he did, that was no guarantee that things would turn out well. He knew that from experience. Repeated experience.

He didn't fancy waiting, not particularly, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything else.

* * *

A/N: I just want to take this time to acknowledge Questfan, who has been so kind as to leave me multiple reviews, and to apologize for deciding against humouring her and paying homage to the Wizard of Oz because I am, unfortunately, obliged to return all borrowed characters in relatively the same state as that in which I found them.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Just saying—with what they have her doing, Alia's bound to be used to blood, and she certainly didn't hesitate before scratching up her face in _Deliver Us from Evil_.

* * *

Alia's head was reeling. She'd lost count of how many lives she'd lived. She hadn't tried counting how many she'd cut short. She was terribly tired. And she knew, now, what people meant when they said they just felt dirty—except the dirt wasn't physical, and she couldn't easily wash it away. It was there, no matter what she did, and she left traces of the grime wherever she leaped. It was just as the Doctor had said; she was staining lives. And she would keep doing it, like he had said, because it had worked.

And now she was caught.

But it wouldn't be forever, he'd said. She had to remember that. There was a chance, sometime, that she'd get out. If she made the right choices, when the time came. If she remembered what he'd told her. But how could she remember it all when so much of it hadn't made sense?

Alia climbed to her feet. She felt stiff. Then again, she wasn't sure how long she'd been lying there. After her first few leaps, they'd checked up on her immediately upon her return. Now, they seemed satisfied. Her condition wasn't going to change, so they didn't need to waste so much time looking after her.

It granted her a modicum of freedom, actually.

She certainly wouldn't have it after this, but she thought that, perhaps, it was a worthwhile venture. She'd bought herself time by establishing a routine. They thought she was faithful. Mindless. They wouldn't suspect that she'd break it.

Certainly not for what she was planning, not when she knew the consequences.

But she had to. It wasn't just for answers, not anymore. She still wanted them, and she intended to get them, or at least most of them, if not every one. But she felt so tainted now, and she thought, perhaps, if she could just do one good deed…. It wouldn't erase what she'd done, or compensate for it, and it certainly wouldn't excuse her from what she would be doing in the future, for she knew she'd continue, but…. It would make her feel better, inside, to know she'd done it once, and damn the consequences. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. And she'd be stronger for it. When the time came to make that choice that the Doctor had been telling her about—or choices; she wasn't sure whether he'd meant it to be plural or singular anymore—she'd be able to make it. She'd be strong enough to do what she needed to.

It was the only door in the facility she'd seen yet with a normal lock and key. The one door that Lothos didn't control. Zoey held the key for this, but Alia didn't need it. She'd been taught how to pick locks, and she ought to be able to do it quickly enough to have time to get the Doctor out of there, out of isolation, before they thought to check up on her and realize what she was doing.

Providing that he was still in there. Or at least that he was in there now. But he hadn't been in the Holding Chamber, and Zoey's attitude hadn't improved any.

Alia opened the door without difficulty. The room was dark and she supposed the temperature hovered around freezing, but she'd expected that, or at least something of that sort. She hadn't expected to find the Doctor chained to the wall, each limb limply splayed out, head lolling forward on a sagging body.

She felt for a pulse.

He was colder than the room itself.

She wouldn't get answers now.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, repeating his words back to him even though he couldn't hear her. Dropping to her knees, she set about freeing him, legs first. She wasn't sure why, and she wasn't sure what she'd do once she had him off the wall, but even after everything she'd had to do, she would still feel awful just leaving him there. Hanging, like a side of meat in the cold room, slowly decaying.

Her fingers were numb now, and it took her longer than she would have liked.

She started to regret her decision, but it was too late for that. Lothos would know, and Zoey would come. And then it would begin. Zoey knew just how far to go, precisely how far to push it. She knew how to draw out death, causing excruciating pain and extending life so that the pain never seemed to end.

Alia struggled a bit with the Doctor's dead weight, but she managed to get to her chamber. She didn't know why, exactly, she'd gone there, but she didn't have another choice. It was the only place she could go. It was the only place Lothos would automatically open when she came near. It wasn't like the accelerator chamber, which opened when Thames began setting the coordinates for the leap. She could pass by it without it budging, when she wasn't set to leap.

She manoeuvred the Doctor's body onto her bed, and looked down at him. "I'm sorry," she told him again. "I don't know why you came, but if it really was for me, like they thought, you shouldn't have come. I'm certainly not worth it. Maybe you were just trying to right something in your past, but you came to the wrong place to do that. You can't come here and escape unscathed, if you even escape at all." She fell silent again, feeling a bit foolish. She'd hardly known him, after all. He'd just…intrigued her.

She noticed the faint mark on his hand. That's where the chip lay, hidden just beneath the skin. She wanted to take it out. It wasn't part of the body. It may have even caused the death, though she doubted anyone who worked on this particular project would be so merciful as to allow that. But she didn't have the tools to take it out. No sterile swabs, no scalpel, or anything of that sort.

But she did have fingernails.

Sharp ones.

It would be messy, and it would be crude, but it would serve the purpose. It would get the job done. It didn't have to be pretty. It wasn't as if the Doctor was going to get a proper burial anyway. By the time they were through, there might not even be a body at all. With Dr. Fletcher, they'd only had to scatter the ashes and file a false report.

Alia picked at the skin on the Doctor's hand. The cold flesh felt different, somehow. She was reminded of the times, oh so long ago, when she'd done dissections in school. Preserved flesh felt a bit like this, she supposed, but then she'd had gloves. She hadn't wanted to touch it directly. But this had that same feeling, like it wouldn't yield, but would if she could just make that first cut. She thought it would be thick, and tough, and she'd have to shred her way through, layer by layer.

But the flesh still tore easily enough, once she'd gotten started.

It only took a few more moments to dislodge the chip. She hoped she hadn't missed anything, but it didn't really matter. She was acting on principle. A fool's principle, perhaps, and she'd be reminded of that when they punished her, but, now, she thought it noble. She meant well. And intention, she thought, really did matter. Entire situations changed depending on intention. It couldn't be ignored.

She would have liked to crush the chip, but she wasn't strong enough to do that.

She settled for throwing it across the room before turning back to the Doctor's body. There was still blood, leaking from his hand, staining hers. Her nails were coated in it, the little creases in her skin flooded with it. It was sticky more than slippery, she thought, and she couldn't wipe it off. It would rub off better when it dried.

She folded the Doctor's arms over his chest. The blood would stop coming then, without gravity to slowly impel it out of the veins.

Only it didn't.

Some of it started to clot and form a scab, but her extracting of the chip hadn't exactly been delicate, and she'd torn out a far larger area than she might have done, had she had sharper tools. And she could still see the blood welling up in the middle, slowly but steadily growing into an ever larger mound.

She found this disturbingly fascinating, and it took her a moment to regain her senses and feel for a pulse again. She couldn't find one, but she was cold, and the body was still cold. He wasn't asleep; he would have woken up when she was tearing at his skin if he had simply been sleeping. He would have to be unconscious, perhaps concussed.

She couldn't see his chest rising or falling, so she held a bloodied hand over his face, trying to feeling him exhale.

Perhaps he was dead after all.

Pushing his hands aside, she pressed an ear to his chest, holding her breath and trying to ignore the pounding of her own heart in her ears.

It was a long moment before she could discern anything, but she was certain she heard something. It wasn't a normal heartbeat, however slow it was. She heard a rapid succession of four, blood moving into the heart and then out again, in and out, and then a long silence. But however abnormal it sounded, it still proved that he was alive.

"Doctor?" Alia asked, shaking him gently. It had no effect, of course.

She wondered how long he'd been out. When was the last time they'd checked on him? She had no way of knowing how serious his condition was; she had no training in caring for people. Even those with medical training in this facility weren't likely to help, knowing what awaited them if they did. Even the Doctor hadn't defied them outright. He'd complied, deciphering the handlink and helping them to understand time travel. All he'd done was withhold information from them, and that's why he was in the state he was now. For being uncooperative. But he hadn't tried to sabotage them.

The pool of blood on the Doctor's hand had smeared now, but most of it had dried. There were only a few glimmering trails of red left.

It was curious that she was still alone, that they hadn't come for her yet. Lothos would have known what was happening. Why hadn't he reported it to Zoey? Surely nothing was to be gained by waiting. Or perhaps this was yet another test. If it were, she'd probably failed it by now. Unless their intention was to grate upon her nerves. She was more susceptible to their suggestions when she was jumpy, unsure of herself, because she leaned on them for support, even though she knew their support couldn't uphold her forever, not in a way she liked.

But it was still support.

The lights dimmed overhead. Lothos hadn't reported her, then. Life was proceeding as usual. She'd remembered to close to the door to the isolation chamber, but she hadn't locked it. They would know something had gone off, then. She wondered whether they'd be more frantic over the Doctor's disappearance or their lack of knowledge about it.

She couldn't think clearly. She knew they'd come after her. It wouldn't be long before they found out. But she was so very tired, and felt even more exhausted now that the room was dark. Slumping down to lie on the floor, Alia soon fell asleep.

* * *

In a quick succession of sensations, the Doctor realized that the air temperature, humidity, and pressure were normal, that he wasn't chained to the wall, but rather lying on the boards that passed as beds in this place, and that his right hand _stung_. Felt like someone had been at it with couple of dull knives. That was perhaps why he could smell blood.

He opened his eyes and lay there for a moment longer. It was dark, but he'd been here before. It wasn't the room they'd allotted for him; it was Alia's. And that would explain why he wasn't alone—she was there, on the floor, and he didn't need to see to guess that she was probably covered with his blood. He could smell it on her, just as he could smell it on himself.

The Doctor wrinkled his nose and began rummaging in his pockets. Deciding that he'd best not wake Alia yet, he fished out a torch rather than his sonic screwdriver. He also found a couple of handkerchiefs, and they looked clean, but they weren't much use to him dry, and he didn't have any water on him. Still, it was better than nothing. Unless…yes, he _did_ still keep it in here, that medical kit. Excellent. He could patch his hand up now, more or less. Enough so that he could use it without having it scrape against everything.

It wasn't his best job, but he had only been using one hand, and his left one at that, so it certainly sufficed. He was just finishing up, slipping the medical kit back into his pocket, when Alia stirred. He hadn't meant to wake her, but he wasn't sure whether it was the light or the rustling of his movements. Either way, she was awake, and gawking at him. He wondered how bloodied he was; he hadn't looked.

"Hello," he said, grinning. "Sorry to wake you."

"Are you…all right?"

"Just dandy," the Doctor replied cheerily.

"But you were…. I mean, I thought…."

"It's just a scrape," the Doctor explained, nodding down at his hand. "Nothing serious."

"I tore the chip out," she said—slowly, as if she thought he'd snap at her.

"So that's what happened. I did wonder. Couldn't recall being stripped of my skin earlier." She still looked doubtful, almost fearful, so he added, "It'll heal quickly enough, and I would have had to take that out anyway."

"But your head," Alia started again. "I can't tell, and you must have gotten hit."

He shook his head. "No. Just tired."

"You weren't just asleep when I dragged you in here," she protested. "I've had sessions with Zoey; I know what she does. You can't recover that quickly."

The Doctor sighed. "Alia, trust me. I was exhausted. I needed to replenish my energy, and my body needed to heal itself. It crept up on me, and I let it. So I'm fine now. I wasn't before, but I am now."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't. "Where did you get that flashlight?" she asked. Frowning, she added, "For that matter, where did you get the bandages?"

"I've got deep pockets," he replied. He offered the torch to her. "I've got another if you'd like one."

"You can't have," she said, looking him up and down.

"You've known me long enough to know that I've got a few tricks up my sleeve," the Doctor reminded her. He pulled another torch out of his pocket, just to prove his point. "See?" he asked, turning it on.

She shook her head. Denial, he guessed. And he was right, because she started, "You can't be fine. I'd thought you were dead, and now you're pulling flashlights out of your pocket like a magician with his scarves!"

"I've those, too," the Doctor admitted. "And I can pull a coin from your ear. And make one disappear. Look here," he said, pulling a coin from his pocket—currency from ancient Rome, judging by its weight and feel, but that wouldn't matter—and showing it to her. He put his hands behind his back, hiding it, and then drew his fists forth. "Pick one," he urged, grinning like a maniac.

"Doctor, we don't have time for this."

"Oh, just go on, pick one. Won't take but a minute. Humour an old man."

She looked like she was biting back one comment or another at that, but nevertheless picked his uninjured hand. He opened it, showing her that there was nothing there. Then he showed her the other one, also empty, before reaching out and pulling the coin from behind her ear. "There, see?" he asked. "I'd practiced until I could do it. Only took a few hours. Granted, I seem to recall being locked up then, too."

"How long did Zoey keep you in isolation?" Alia asked pointedly.

"Ooh, let me see." The Doctor thought for a moment. How long had he been in the healing coma? A day? Half of one? Two? "At a stretch, I wouldn't say longer than thirty-six hours. But, on and off, could be five, six times that. No matter. I'm out now, and they won't be able to get me back. Not without that chip of theirs, and especially not when I'm in this shape. Look at me; think they could take me? Nah. Too alert. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed."

"You're babbling," Alia noted dully. She didn't seem to think it was a good sign.

The Doctor shrugged. "I have a tendency to do that this time around. Funny thing, those tendencies. But, yes. I'll try not to digress. It's just that there are so many tangents that are so interesting to pursue, if you try. And—sorry, right, matter at hand. But, no, I'm fine. Chipper. Just needed a bit of a rest, that's all. Better now."

"Did you tell them anything?" Alia pressed. "At the end, did Zoey manage to—?"

"Get me to talk? Break me? Snap my wits? Nah." The Doctor waved a hand dismissively. "Can't say she was particularly pleased about that. Probably was planning to have another go at me. I have to thank you for saving me from that. I didn't exactly find those sessions pleasant. Interesting, yes, because I have to be curious as to where she learned those techniques. Not exactly the sort of thing you'd pick up in school, not in these days. And she'd mastered them. I'd say she learned from an expert, which is impressive, because you'd be hard pressed to find someone who knows so much about torture chambers of the 1100s nowadays. Could be self-taught, I suppose, but I'd hate to have been one of her test subjects earlier on. Still. When you think about—"

"Doctor, please, I'm trying to figure out how much time we have," Alia broke in.

"How much time we have for what?"

"Before they find us."

"Oh, you mean before they discover that you got me out of there? Well, if you'd keep calm, I'm sure it won't be for a little while yet. See, I've had a bit of time to think. I'd been debating about fitting Lothos with an inhibitor, but I never got around to it. And, you know, I'm not sure if I need to. Probably still should, just to be safe. Won't hurt if they can't find it, after all, and I'll make sure they can't."

"What do you mean?"

"When I first came here, I intrigued Lothos. And in the time I spent working around him, he learned about me. How could he not? And he's not as slow as the rest of you lot. Ziggy certainly wasn't. She's, ah, another sort of…. Never mind." The Doctor waved Aila's questions away. "Thing is, he doesn't want me dead. I'm far too useful. Means he doesn't want me to escape, either, and I'm sure he'll put up a fight once he realizes what I'm up to, but I'm resourceful enough and I'll win. But Lothos wants to know what I can survive, what my limits are, and exactly how resourceful and ingenious I am. He's set up this game, you see. It's not _respect_, not really. It's a thirst for knowledge, a battle of wits. And I'm going to win it."

"You're awfully confident, considering you were unconscious and probably in a coma," Alia muttered.

"I'm all the better for that," the Doctor reminded her.

"You can't be, not if you're thinking like this," Alia cried. "You can't outwit Lothos. He knows everything. He—"

"Doesn't know why I came here any more than you do," the Doctor interrupted. "You see, evil computers and their games…. I've played before, and it's all the same, really. And if I've won before, I can win again. Granted, I usually have help. But you've helped me, haven't you, Alia? You helped me out of isolation. Why?"

She was caught off her guard by the question. "I wanted to do something good."

"Did you, now? Well, you have. Now, and before, and yet to come."

"You aren't making sense."

"Never seem to when I'm in a rush. Never have time to explain properly. Not that I always _do_ explain properly. Half the time it's best to leave everyone with their questions, wouldn't you say?" Alia shook her head, and the Doctor grinned. He knew she'd had questions. That was probably half the reason she came to get him. "All right, then. We've a minute or two. What did you want to ask?"

She didn't say anything for a moment. Probably sifting through her thoughts, he figured, trying to pick out a pertinent one in the current situation, one that could actually be answered. "How did you mange this, putting it all together? You did it so quickly."

He grinned at her again. "Just like I told the guard at the gate. I've got experience."

"In what?"

He could see her piecing things together, with what he'd told her earlier. And…judging by her comprehension, something else as well. Perhaps he ran into her again after all. Ah, well; it's been done, and he'd let it happen again. He let his grin grow to manic proportions, saying in a cheery voice, "Precisely!"

"But…. But you…. I…. You _can't_ mean…."

"Can't I? Who's to say what I can and can't mean? Certainly not you. My meanings are my own, aren't they? Well, my own and…no, still just my own, I suppose, though I'd have to say it's a bit split, if I did…. No, no, still separate, I think. Yes. Separate. Wholly my own. This me, mind. My own now. Currently my own." He'd lost her now. Just as well. Leaping into his future self wasn't the easiest thing to explain, even if she had a good chance of knowing what he meant. It would be much easier for her to comprehend if he'd leaped into his past self, but he hadn't, because, from his other self's perspective, _he_ was the past self, and therefore Sam's leap into him had _caused_ the splintering, and it had been too early anyway, that leap, going wrong as it had.

Funny, though. What Sam had leaped in to do, to fix, the wrong he had to right—it wasn't something _he'd_ ever think of. It was the sort of thing he missed. Which was perhaps why Sam had needed to be the one to change things.

Hold on. He shouldn't know that. That wasn't _his_ knowledge. He was thinking about the conclusions his other self had come to, conclusions that _he_ hadn't known. And, yes, there they were, a few misplaced neurons. He carefully separated them. He'd have to watch it, now. They were more likely to meld in with everything else more easily now that he'd let it happen once. "Sorry," he corrected, "not wholly my own after all. Meaning, that is. I was…being influenced. Just a little bit." Alia was giving him a look that Martha had given him all too often in 1969. Before that, too, actually. He shrugged apologetically. Perhaps more time had passed than he'd thought.

"Be that as it may," Alia finally said, looking at him like he was a madman and she expected him to go off at any moment, "whoever you are, and whatever you can do, and wherever…_whenever_ you come from, and regardless of whomever you're pretending to be—"

"Oh, I'm not pretending to be anyone," the Doctor said. "I'm me, through and through. A tiny bit's a little more experienced, that's all. Which is helpful, actually. I'll need to use that bit, carefully, so I can make sure everything's set properly. I'd hate to think that it'll unravel on me the moment I leave."

"You're speaking in riddles again."

"Sometimes I have to," the Doctor replied simply. "Safer that way."

"But you—"

"Really shouldn't be chitchatting now that Zoey's discovered I've gone for a stroll," the Doctor cut in. "So, I'll have to cut our visit short, Alia. You'll remember what I told you, yes? Beforehand? The balance between good and evil and choices and all that?"

"I mean to, yes, but how can you know that Zoey—?"

"I can hear her," the Doctor answered. "And she's walking quite quickly, so I'm going to assume that she's _very_ angry. I've only a few more things to do here. Might not have time to put that inhibitor in like I wanted to, seeing as Lothos may not be quite so accommodating now that he's realized I might have a chance at beating him at his own game, but I will be able to wipe the records of my time here. And, perhaps, well, tweak something while I'm at it. With the retrieval system. And, Alia, you'll have to forgive me for that, and trust that I know best, because I do, especially in this case." He pocketed his torch and the coin and pulled out his sonic screwdriver instead.

Alia sat there, stunned. Using his sonic screwdriver, he turned the lights on low and carefully removed the torch from her hands, clicking it off. "I've got to run," he said. "And I imagine that they'll want you to leap. You might think it's terrible, Alia, but you'll survive it, whatever they put you through. And you'll be brilliant, when the time comes. I just know you will." He turned the screwdriver on the door, jumping up from the bench they called a bed and hopping from foot to foot, impatient when the door didn't open quickly enough.

"But…am I even going to see you again, ever?" Alia cried as he ducked out the door.

He looked back and smiled at her. "Perhaps. I'll see you, right enough, or at least that's what I'm assuming, but will you see me? I haven't the slightest. Maybe if I'm lucky."

"And will you answer my questions then?" she called as he turned away.

He glanced back at her. "Everyone always has questions," he said. "And however many you answer, they'll always have more." He gave her a bright grin. "I'll be seeing you!"


	9. Chapter 9

"Zoey, sweetheart, it's not the end of the world," Thames said, catching up to her again. "He can't have gotten out of the facility."

"He got out of isolation," Zoey snapped. "When I last looked in on him, he was out like a light, and in no condition to be going _anywhere_."

"Lothos informed us that Alia managed to free him. You've got to hand it to her; that's not an easy lock to pick."

"Alia's going to rot in hell for that," Zoey snarled. "And she's trying to drag me down there with her. She'll regret that."

"But we're going to catch him," Thames reminded her. "He's not going anywhere."

Zoey stopped and rounded on Thames. "_Dr. Smith_," she hissed, "has done something to Lothos, or we would have known the minute Alia so much as tried to get him out of isolation. And if he's found a way around Lothos, then he can get out of here. And if he escapes, it'll be on my head, not yours, so don't you tell me everything's going to be just _fine_, Thames. Now get going to seal the doors and sound the alarm and whatever else. _I've_ got to talk to Alia."

Thames let Zoey storm off without further comment. She was right, after all; the fact that he had to set everything manually meant Dr. Smith had managed to do something to corrupt Lothos's systems. They would have to determine what he'd done and how he'd done it before they could go about correcting it, and that would take time.

Perhaps the fool thought it would give him time enough to escape.

Smirking to himself, Thames entered the Control Room—and stopped short, seeing Dr. Smith emerge from within the main terminal. Before he could open his mouth, however, Dr. Smith pulled a silver tool from between his teeth and grinned at him. "Zoey off to see Alia, then?" he asked, nonchalantly replacing the side panels and somehow using his device to secure them in place. Thames noticed a bandage on his right hand, but he used it well. He'd managed to get the chip out, then, which is why they hadn't been able to locate him.

It also explained the blood that was smeared on his face and neck, and the fresh stains on his suit. He hadn't thought Zoey had been with Dr. Smith recently.

"Just what do you think you're doing?' Thames demanded when he regained his voice, choosing to ignore Dr. Smith's observation.

"I'm doing precisely what I think—well, _know_ would be the more appropriate word, really—I need to be doing. Or, rather, I did it already. Just finishing up."

"Lothos—"

"Didn't stop me, as I'm sure you've observed," Dr. Smith cut in. "Oh, believe me, he tried. But he couldn't."

"Lothos would've—"

"Oh, but Lothos would have known, wouldn't he? Is that what you're trying to say? That he would have known what I was going to try to do, and anticipated my actions? And did you ask why he didn't tell you? No? Ought to have. But perhaps you didn't because you didn't want to know the answer. And maybe that was because you feared the answer. Because you thought, perhaps, that you might know it already. And you didn't want to admit it. Because you didn't _like_ that answer."

"If you're suggesting—"

"Me? Suggesting that Lothos may not be infallible? Dare I? Yes, I think I do. I am. Wouldn't be back here if I didn't think he was. Granted, I came back here because I needed to ensure that. And a few other things. And I simply didn't have the time the first time. Still, it was first on my priority list, and I didn't have to come back far. Just long enough to nip in and make a few adjustments. Of course, if I hadn't known that you'd catch me at it, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. But I might be able to class this as a cheap trick, you know. Upon considering the instability and all that."

Thames knew nonsense when he heard it, but he'd spent enough time watching and listening to Dr. Smith to know that the man often buried a grain of truth in all his blithering on. Now, however, he appeared to have abandoned that. If he'd intended ambiguity and double-meanings to lie behind his words, well, it didn't matter. As far as Thames could tell, Zoey had finally gotten to him.

He had to admit that it had taken far longer than usual. Zoey usually had them reduced to babbling their life story in three days.

"Of course," Dr. Smith was saying, "it helps that I didn't bother to wash up first. Because now you won't know how much time really passed, between then and now."

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Thames asked, smirking. "Because for you, it's all the same. And—"

"Oh, you have that right," Dr. Smith said in a low voice. "You'll never know how right. Especially in the given circumstances."

"The circumstances where you're stuck here, you mean?"

Dr. Smith laughed a bit then, a darker laugh than Thames had heard from him before. "Oh, I'll never understand you lot. Where did they find you, I wonder? How could they possibly think you were qualified to work on something like this? Or is that the point, that you're not qualified at all? So they train you up and then you're easier to control?" He shook his head. "You humans, always playing around with things you don't and can't understand. That's what gets you into these messes, you know that? Every time. If you'd stop to think, just once, that oh, maybe this _wouldn't_ be the brightest idea, sending the timeline hurtling towards its own destruction—but no, you don't. And I'm not always around to save your skin, am I? Sometimes you lot have to figure things out for yourselves. And then you learn, don't you, that it isn't always worth it? That it doesn't always turn out like you think it will? Only the next time the opportunity comes around, you forget. And it happens again. And it just keeps going, on and on, round and round, never stopping—"

"If you think you can talk your way out of here, you're sadly mistaken." Zoey was back, the usual sneer on her face. She walked slowly into the room, looking Dr. Smith up and down. "I'll say this much for you, though. You can certainly leg it when you need to."

Thames hadn't seen Zoey come in; he'd been watching Dr. Smith. The minute Zoey had interrupted, he'd stopped, his face adopting a brief expression of horror. Something about that look, Thames knew, was genuine, but he had a feeling it hadn't been brought on by Zoey's words. Absurd as it sounded, Dr. Smith acted as if he had been surprised by what he had been saying.

But that was absurd, like he'd thought.

Though it _was_ curious that Lothos still hadn't done anything.

But seeing as Dr. Smith had been at him, perhaps it wasn't so curious after all.

"Oh, I'll get out of here," Dr. Smith said, his voice returning to a cheery tone. "Done it before, can do it again. Probably will have to take a different route, though, since the circumstances of my prior escape aren't going to replicate themselves. Mainly because I don't want to risk it again; once was enough."

"There's no sense in deluding yourself, darling," Zoey said, sidling up to him. "You're not leaving here." She reached out to grab his arm, but he danced away from her.

"Aren't I?" he asked, voice full of false innocence. "Funny you'd say that, really. Because how much do you really know about what's happening? Lothos keeps tabs on everyone, sure, and you can check in on that, but lately he hasn't been keeping tabs on me, has he? And not just because I finally rid myself of that chip of yours. He'd stopped long before that. He stopped the minute I started to outwit him at his own game. And he's not denying it, is he? Do you know why? Because he can't. Not anymore. Not now. Because now, he can't pick me up. He can't sense me. Oh, he knows I'm here now, but as soon as I'm out of this room, he'll lose me. Cameras will go on the fritz, recorders will go all crackly, and you won't have the control you had before. Not where I'm concerned. And I'd realized that, you know, that first time through. Once you came to check on Alia, I, as you say, legged it. But getting out was just too easy, even for me. Even with that little run-in. And then I realized what I must've done. And then I had to do it. So I did, just now. After checking up on something else, of course. But this is done and set. I've primed it. It's ready." He paused, grinning. "Aren't you going to ask what for?"

"Thames, get him back in isolation. I don't have time for this." Zoey sounded bored. There was no trace, Thames noted, of the anxiety he'd heard earlier. She'd planned out her punishment for Alia, then—or at least the start of it.

"Aren't you going to ask?" Dr. Smith queried. "Lothos, I mean. Aren't you going to ask why he's been playing these games with you?"

"Now, Thames," Zoey ordered, voice sharper than before.

Thames started towards Dr. Smith, but the man kept evading him, nattering on. "He's afraid of me, I think. Least, now he is. Now that he's got his proof. Or he did. Doesn't now. But he knows he had it, and that's enough for him."

Dr. Smith dodged the punch Thames threw at him, but he let himself get caught anyhow. Or at least that's how it seemed, since he would've had a chance if he'd tried to get past Zoey. He likely wouldn't have succeeded, but he would've known there was a chance, and anyone in their right mind would have taken it, especially if they knew what would be in store for them if they hung around. And Dr. Smith certainly had had a taste of that now.

Thames marched Dr. Smith down the room. He hadn't stopped blithering on, jumping from topic to topic as if he thought that would confuse him. But even if it didn't make a whole lot of sense, it wasn't confusing. Thames had long ago learned to accept things without protest. He didn't have to _listen_ to what Dr. Smith was saying. He just had to put up with it.

"You'd be amazed at the things I seem to keep in my pockets these days. Though, come to that—" and here Dr. Smith paused for a second, seemingly reconsidering, before adding, "—you'd probably be amazed with some of the things I've kept in my pockets in the past. And, oh, it's this one, isn't it? This hallway?" They passed by it. "Apparently not. Next one, then?"

Thames resolutely kept marching him down to isolation.

"I think we missed it," Dr. Smith started saying. "D'you think we can go back?" He was craning his neck to look over his shoulder now, trying to drag his feet at the same time.

It had taken him longer than the rest. Thames would give him that. But sooner or later, they all cracked. Especially under Zoey. He'd gotten on the wrong side of her once, when he'd first been recruited. Fortunately, he'd had the good sense to redeem himself and prove himself willing and useful. And he was—he certainly knew how to handle the technical side of things, much better than Zoey did. And he loved watching the cockfight as much as the next person. There was a certain thrill in it that he didn't get from anything else.

"It'll take five seconds," Dr. Smith insisted. "Well, fifty-four, if you stop now and we start going _back_—"

"And why do you think I'd do that?" Thames finally asked.

"To preserve history, or at least to keep things from getting worse? No, wait, wrong project. Sorry. How about if I said you'd get to know who I really was?"

Thames stopped, suspicious now. "What do you mean, _wrong project_?"

"Did I say that? I meant wrong _projection_. As in, projection of what you're supposed to… No? Not buying that?" Dr. Smith shrugged. "Suppose I knew you wouldn't, but it doesn't hurt to try, does it? Besides, it made you stop. And that's all I really needed, because just seeing this, well, it was enough for me to make the right connections. You don't need much, really, to make those connections, not if you're willing to connect in the right ways and in ways so many people would insist are the wrong ways. Still following me? Yes? No? Maybe so? How about if I say you just need to think fourth-dimensionally? That's what you're prodding at, after all."

"I don't know why I bother," Thames muttered, pushing Dr. Smith to start walking again.

Dr. Smith didn't move. "You bother because you think I might be right," he pointed out. "Or, rather, because you think I might say something that might be right, or nearly right. I mean, I can't be wrong all the time, can I? Statistically, I'm bound to be right once in a while. Only, you've noticed that I seem to be right a lot more than I statistically should be, haven't you? Because you've been the one watching me, screening everything I do—at least, when you see it. But I was right about that hallway being the right one, you know, just like I was right about what would make you stop. And I'm going to be right about escaping, too. Just you watch." And before Thames could stop him, Dr. Smith had twisted out of his grip and started running back the way he'd come.

Thames started after him, dodging through the corridors and in between rooms—rooms he'd been quite certain had been closed off, so how Dr. Smith had managed to open them was beyond him—until he was certain that Dr. Smith, who hadn't ever been in this part of the facility, would have gotten himself utterly turned around and lost.

That was perhaps why Thames wasn't as surprised as he might have been to find Dr. Smith with his ear pressed to the wall at one of the dead ends.

"You may be right about a lot of things," Thames started, making sure he was blocking the exit. "But you're as fallible as the rest of us."

Dr. Smith looked a bit confused. "Well, yes," he allowed, "at times, but may I ask why you're making that observation now instead of gloating?"

"Seemed fitting," Thames replied. "Because you were acting like you thought you were always right."

"Was I?" Dr. Smith's brow creased for a moment. "And when..._oh_. Right. Yes. I see." He paused. "If you're not going to march me off right away, mind if I go back to what I was doing?" And without waiting for a response, he started knocking on the wall again, as if he expected to find a hollow spot behind it.

"It's a dead end," Thames told him.

"So say the schematics you've seen," Dr. Smith said. "But then you never did much digging, did you? You just accepted what was on the official plan, like the mindless puppet they've taught you to be. Never bothered to walk the perimeter, did you? It doesn't match up."

"Believe what you want, but the facts aren't going to change."

"No, they aren't, are they? But sometimes perspectives shift, even if the facts don't change."

"Is that what you were on about earlier?"

"I don't know. What _was_ I on about earlier?"

Thames didn't bother answering him. He grabbed Dr. Smith's bandaged hand instead, forcing him away from the wall. "Let's go."

"Oi, watch it!" Dr. Smith protested, pulling his hand away. "That's still tender. And I know you haven't exactly got a reputation for being supremely hospitable here, but you could at least _pretend_ to have some common decency."

Thames snorted. "Why, because you think Lothos won't be recording every word we say?"

Dr. Smith looked puzzled again. "Why would I think that?" He saw Thames roll his eyes, and got a bit defensive. "I had the chip in my hand removed; it's not like I had a chance to wipe Lothos's memory banks. You have had me locked up for over a week, you know."

"Acting like you've lost your marbles isn't going to help you here," Thames informed him shortly. "Half the staff probably have, but they've retained enough sense to keep themselves alive."

"You included?' Dr. Smith asked lightly. Thames scowled at him. "I just don't think you ought to start defining who's sane and who's not, because then you have to define what's normal, and you can't do that."

"And you think that you—?"

"What I _think_," Dr. Smith interrupted, "is that you, and a good many others here, are refusing to open your eyes. I mean, it's all laid out in front of you, plain as day. But you don't want to see it. So you _can't_. And that's one of the reasons this project will fail, you know. Because you can't adapt as well as you ought to. You can't accept what you need to. You can't piece things together, make the right connections. How can you, when you're so focussed on tearing things apart? But let me tell you, Thames, no matter how much you lot tear apart, you won't be able to mould the future you want, not like this. There are too many other factors that influence that sort of thing. What you're trying to do is to prevent the last straw from breaking the camel's back. And, yes, it seems to work. Sometimes. But it's far from infallible."

"You're trying to lecture me again?" Thames asked incredulously. "I'm going to lock you up so tightly that you're never going to see the light of day again, and you're lecturing me?"

"You may try locking me up," Dr. Smith said, "but I'm not getting the impression that you'll succeed, not if you're going on like this, not making the connections. Because I've made them already, you see. I know what I'm going to do, or have already done, depending on how you look at it. And I know I don't exactly wait a while to do that, based on your behaviour, so I expect that, even if you do manage to lock me up, I'll get out. I'll come back, but since we're having this conversation now, I think it's safe to assume that I'm going to get out again. I'm going to succeed, twice over. And you know what? I'm not going to be the only one who manages to escape your little project here." He grinned, a bright, slightly manic grin, but it was a cheerful one, free of the darkness that had been held in his expression before.

He'd thought he'd won.

Thames smirked. "Lothos," he called, "seal the door to Unit 45-D."

"45-D?" Dr. Smith repeated. "Really? This is a dead end, then. You're right. I was a room over, wouldn't you know?"

"Lothos," Thames repeated, "I need you to seal the door to Unit 45-D."

"I did manage it after all, then," Dr. Smith mused, a slight smile on his face. "Lucky me." And before Thames could stop him, he was out of the room. Thames started after him, but Dr. Smith pulled the silver device from his pocket again and aimed it at the door. "Sorry," he said, not sounding at all as if he meant it as he activated the device and the door started to close. "But I have to get out the first time if I'm to get out the second time." The door had closed by the time Dr. Smith had finished speaking, much too quickly for Thames to slip out after him.

The mysterious Dr. Smith had, it appeared, won after all.

Thames vowed he'd get him for that, for everything he'd put them through, for being so smug as he did his best to outwit them all. Thames didn't stand for that sort of thing; he'd even kill the good doctor personally if he ever saw him again. He wouldn't let him get a word in before he shot him clear through the heart. He certainly deserved it, with all his rambling and infuriating implications of superiority.

He'd rather let himself be taunted into giving the man a quick death than to be outwitted again and not have the chance to kill him at all.

Zoey would agree, but he wasn't going to tell her.

He wasn't about to give her an opportunity to take her anger out on him, on the pretence of teaching him a lesson.

He'd learnt his lesson well enough the first time.


	10. Chapter 10

The Doctor returned to his TARDIS a second time. He'd been sure to avoid his first self, as much as was necessary, and had therefore parked in a completely different area. It had been a bit of a hike, but it was worth it. And he could finally clean up a bit. Still, risky as the entire venture had been, he didn't regret it. He'd done what he'd needed to do, and learned what he'd needed to learn.

Like the fact that Thomas and Patricia Edwards were listed as missing, not dead.

He'd need a bit of time, first. He didn't think the children would take kindly to him when he was covered in blood. And it would take him a while to get the stains out of this suit. He could change, of course, but that would require transferring everything out of his pockets, and he wasn't entirely sure what was in these pockets, and he thought it may be best if he didn't find out.

And he _could_ clean it without emptying all the pockets. It would take longer. Well, perhaps not as long as making sure he had every pocket completely empty, but still. He'd risked enough doubling back as he had. Yes, he'd justified that, but instability and cheap tricks and doing it simply because he knew he had already done it weren't always the best claims, because he knew what he was trying to hide when he was justifying it to himself, and somehow that never worked out. Still. He'd prepared everything at the Evil Leaper Project. He hadn't been fibbing about that.

Well, fibbing was a bit strong. He'd been stretching the truth. It would be the truth once he finished up with this, because then it _would _be set and primed. All ready for the splicing itself. Both parallels were prepared. Well, that is to say, this parallel was prepared, and he'd checked, and nothing had become distorted in the other one, so it was the same as always, ready and waiting for him.

He was rather lucky these two had split the way they had. Well, he was never lucky when he ended up in situations like this, but he _was_ lucky in that he would be able to manoeuvre the way he needed to in order to splice these parallels alone. If the other one wasn't so stable, if it, too, had been weak like this one, then he would've found things a tad more difficult. Namely because he was one Time Lord. Singular, two selves aside, since his other self wasn't much use at the moment. He'd had something that he'd intended to do, the Doctor knew. But he also didn't need to cross to the other parallel to know that it hadn't been done.

That was not very comforting.

He _could_ take comfort in the fact that he was alive, though, because that meant things hadn't gone terribly wrong in the leaping process, because with the primitive technology the good people at Project Quantum Leap were using, if his other self had splintered, shattering in the leap, _he_ wouldn't have come out of it to be here in the first place. He probably would have been dead. And Sam…. He wasn't entirely sure what would have happened to Sam. He'd've probably been stuck with Martha, on the terminating parallel. This parallel. The aura would have melted away, and the link to the Project would have been lost, and they would have been alone in the final hours. Especially since he wasn't entirely certain that the TARDIS would have been able to take them home safely—the instability in the Vortex risked tearing them apart, and the old girl would've had the good sense to wait until she could transport them safely. The question was whether or not that time would ever arrive, or whether she would've taken a risk with his companions, judging that such a time wouldn't come, and possibly exposed them to enough temporal radiation, shields or no, that their atoms—

But that hadn't happened. At least, not yet. And he knew that if he was careful enough, he could prevent everything from reverting on him, from falling apart. He could stop it, stop events from slipping through his fingers, and he could keep a grasp on the important streams within the timeline. He needed to be able to do that, in order to splice it. All he was doing now was making sure everything was aligned—people, places, events, all in the right places at the right time, all connecting where they should, interacting like they ought to, coming to the intended conclusions. There would be a few misfits, now, because he'd changed a few things he hadn't meant to, and he had to compensate for that. He had to cushion those events so that they survived the splicing.

But that was the easy part, next to the actual splicing itself.

He would have to go off, mentally, into the Vortex, select the right strands, and physically weave them together. Well, not _physically_, not really, but it wasn't simply _mentally_ or _temporally_, either. It would be physically draining, yes. He'd need the mental support of the TARDIS, yes. And he'd probably lose a few years in the process, no matter how careful he was, but he could at least do his best to make sure they weren't very important years. Or, if he had the energy and the time—because once the splicing was initiated, he only had so long before he had to finish it or it all started to unravel on him and he was left holding the ends of two dying parallels, with nowhere and nowhen to return to, trapping himself in the Void, caught between universes, providing he survived long enough to comprehend what had happened—he could shave it off by days, hours, maybe even minutes. If he did it that way, it would be less noticeable, but it would add up and have the same effect. The humans who devised the Gregorian calendar at least understood that, even if they couldn't figure out how to sort time into days and months and years without requiring an extra day every four years. But perhaps that was because they tried cataloguing time in the first place, without really understanding it.

Just as well. He wouldn't wish them without those limitations. He depended on those limitations. It was annoying, sometimes, how they always trapped themselves within those imagined limits, but it also proved exceedingly useful and was probably the only reason the timeline hadn't been destroyed earlier.

It had merely been a minor mistake on the part of his future self, underestimating things as he had. But he was allowed to make the odd mistake or small miscalculation here and there. He could fix them.

Usually.

The Doctor sighed. He was getting ahead of himself. First things first. Tidy himself up, and then find out whatever happened to Thomas and Patricia Edwards, and go to make sure it did happen. Or, failing that, tidy up, track them down, and make it up as he went along. Either ought to work, seeing how good he was at improvising. But if it wouldn't take him _too_ much time, he probably ought to see if he could find out what was supposed to happen first, because the last thing he needed was an anomaly that resisted the splicing.

Time wasn't easy to weave together in the first place, once it started to unravel. He didn't need anything more resisting his actions.

* * *

The Doctor cautiously stuck his head out the door. The coast seemed clear, for now. That was good. It would give him time to scout the area. He wasn't entirely sure how the children were supposed to die, and if he didn't find that out, he couldn't very well make them disappear. And evidently they had disappeared, according to Lothos's records. He could only assume that that was his own intervention.

Closing the door of the TARDIS behind him, he moseyed off to inspect the yard. Wasn't much, but it was enough. It was homey. This wasn't the first generation that this family had been on the farm. And he got the impression that it was respected, the land and the farm and the family.

And he had to tear them apart, that family. Two kids, and another on the way, if he'd gotten a good look at Karen—tricky, but he had been able to look beneath Alia's aura when he'd tried, once he'd gotten the alignment patterns right. But he was still confident that he was right. And, well, at least his separation wouldn't be permanent, not like it would be if Alia had managed to complete her mission as originally intended.

The fact that the outcome had changed so easily, from death to disappearance, told him that however Alia had meant to murder the children, it wasn't quick and definitive. Which meant, essentially, no guns. Probably not strangling. Drowning, suffocation perhaps. It wasn't likely that she'd try to drop them out the window. Unless he was there to catch the kids, they weren't likely to survive. At least, not unscathed. Very small chance of that. And, well, he would prefer to return them to their parents in one piece. He'd learned that it was difficult enough returning them when they were perfectly fine; he'd hate to have to bring the children back if they were feeling anything less than one hundred percent.

It occurred to him that if he watched the children and kept track of them, he wouldn't have to pursue his survey of sloughs and crumbling buildings, but he decided that he had enough trouble with companions who wandered off and that he probably wouldn't have much better luck with children.

Though, as it turned out, one of the children found him first.

"Who are you?"

The Doctor grinned at Patricia Edwards, dropping down to her height. "Hello," he said cheerily. "I'm the Doctor. Who are you?"

"Patsy. How did you get here?'

The Doctor figured Patsy wasn't quite ready for a lecture on transdimensional physics, so he simply said, "I walked."

"From where?'

Right. The never-ending questions. It had been a while since he'd dealt with children. When was the last time, that stint in 2012? That hardly counted. And the children he'd been teaching had been past this stage. He'd probably have to go back to his ninth regeneration, the time he'd met up with Captain Jack during the Blitz. Or even further back than that.

"Over the hill."

"Why?" And before the Doctor could come up with an answer, Patsy added, "Are you going to help Mommy?"

"Why would I need to do that? Is something wrong with her?"

Patsy shrugged. "She's acting funny. And Tommy was scared of her. He acted like he does around strangers. He only just started coming around this morning. Daddy didn't notice; he's been away too much. He's gone before even I get up and he's not back before I go to bed. He's tired when he comes in, but he'll stop and come and say goodnight to me. Except now it's the weekend, so I can stay up later. But he still comes in, because I'm usually asleep by the time he comes in for good. I've only heard him a few times."

"Right. Well, I mi—"

"And you're not the doctor from town, because I know the doctor from town, and you're not Dr. Teller."

"No, I'm not," the Doctor agreed. "I'm not from town."

"So where are you from?"

He'd walked into that one. He wondered if she'd planned it. Children were smarter than adults gave them credit for. "It's a long way away."

"Where?"

Or perhaps she was just asking questions. You could always tell the outgoing children from the shy ones. "Gallifrey."

"Where's that?"

"A long way away," the Doctor repeated.

"That's what you said before."

"Yes, it is. Now, Patsy, tell me, has your mother done anything especially unusual since she hasn't been herself?"

"She's been acting funny," Patsy repeated.

"Yes, I know, you told me that. But how is she acting funny? What's she been doing that's different?"

"Everything." And before the Doctor could ask for clarification, Patsy continued, "Why are you here?"

"I'm here to help," the Doctor answered.

"Help who?"

"Just to help. But right now, I was wondering, is there any place you're not allowed to go?"

Patsy nodded. "There's lots of places. The old well and the stone pile and the dugout and the old bins and the hayloft in the barn, but I like to go to the barn and swing on the rope even though Mommy tells me not to."

"And is that where you're going now?"

Patsy shook her head. "I was going to slide down the grain pile. Annie said she did it and that it was really fun except she got really itchy and her mom made her take a bath and she got in a lot of trouble because they didn't know that she'd done it. But she hadn't meant to do it to start. She said she was just following Boots and he climbed up and she followed him and then he ran off and she slid down but that was fun so she did it again and again until her mom found her and she got in trouble."

"And did you tell your mom what you were planning?" the Doctor asked.

Patsy nodded. "She said to have fun and not to be too long."

"Did she now." The Doctor frowned. "Well, you be careful, Patsy, and I'm going to see you before I go, all right?"

"All right," Patsy agreed. And then she went off, singing something under her breath, leaving the Doctor's hearts aching. He wanted to forbid her, or at least to follow her, but he couldn't stop things now. He knew how they were supposed to play out, and he had to let that happen.

Even if he really, _really_ didn't like to do it.

In the meantime, he thought he'd inspect some of the places Patsy had named off. The well sounded like an interesting place, so he thought he'd try to find that. Still, the barn was nearby, though, so he could check that out first. He'd have to keep an eye out, though. Didn't want to be caught. The questions any of the adults would ask him would be a bit different from Patsy's. He wasn't sure if the Edwards had any hired help. If the father—Henry? Harry?—was busy in the field most of the day, they could certainly use another hand, what with Karen occupied with the children. But human society depended so much on money, and he wasn't sure how much the Edwards family had.

He spent more time in the barn than he should have. Even the sharp scent of manure hadn't driven him out, not once he'd found the treasure trove up in the hayloft. It was in one corner, that mishmash of things. He couldn't resist looking through it. He hadn't seen some of these things in ages. One proved to be something even _he_ couldn't identify. That piece was small, so he kept it. They'd never know it was missing, would they? And he was doing them a favour, of sorts. He certainly knew how odds and ends piled up. They probably didn't even want it. Perhaps they didn't even know what it was. But he'd find someone who knew, and he'd show it to them, and then they could tell him, and then he'd know. To be fair, one of the reasons he couldn't discern its purpose could be because it may be part of something larger, something that wasn't kept in this pile. But he didn't know for certain. And anyway, he thought the piece he had would fit quite nicely with the secondary switch level on the portable anti-filtration device that he was building. It would make it easier to have the device double as a saturation detector, too, judging by its proportions.

He did remember to do a quick tour around the barn, sighting a few potential spots, but he couldn't settle on a scenario that would allow any of those troublesome areas to be used and the actions thought successful. Funny, though, that they'd let a disappearance mean the same as a death. A disappearance was far less definitive. He had to wonder what the people at the Evil Leaper Project thought they would be changing, and what they would gain from that change. He'd have to figure that out, or he'd have more than a bit of trouble sorting this.

It took a bit of wandering to find the well. Well, the old well, at least. The newer one was quite evident with its prominent pump, the painted metal new enough not to be worn, but the old one—the old one had trees growing up to it now. The reason it caught his attention was the new boards that fenced it off. He hopped the fence and set about for a closer inspection. The wooden covering was rotting through. He poked at it a bit, peering through a knothole. He dropped a stone through it, listening. It was dry. And about fifteen, twenty feet down, he'd say, if he had to guess.

It _could_ have potential. If Alia dropped Tommy down here, she wouldn't need to look to see if he survived. Chances are, he wouldn't.

But it was curious that they didn't check.

The Doctor straightened up, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he frowned down at the well. He'd have to keep an eye on this place. Though, come to that, he'd rather like to check up on Patsy, too. If he was going to get to her in a rush, which he'd have to in order to have perfect timing, since he'd have to find her before her actual death and after Zoey's pronouncement that the experiment had been a success, then he'd have to know her precise whereabouts now. Zoey certainly wouldn't make the mistake twice, though, when it came to death and disappearance. He wondered if she'd just scanned for life signs and found none as opposed to actually looking.

But, come to that, it wouldn't exactly be easy to nip Patsy away, especially if she was still conscious. She'd looked like she'd had a set of lungs on her. And she was curious about him, but curiosity didn't constitute trust. Then again, he was in a rural area. He was more likely to find trust here. But he still wouldn't be able to convince her to come away with him, not without some explanation to satisfy her. And, judging by his earlier conversation with her, that would take some time. And he didn't have a lot of time if he had to get her and Tommy away for Zoey to proclaim the success of their first experiment.

Of course, perhaps his schedule wasn't _quite_ that tight, not if they _were_ equating disappearances to deaths. From that perspective, they'd find it successful either way. But things still had the potential to change, now. Here, they were still looking at deaths as a success, and that would be what Zoey would be looking for when the time came. What _he_ needed to do was create the right ripples so that they would accept the disappearances instead. Or, at least, that's what he thought. Because surely they wouldn't be so accommodating all on their own, would they?

Perhaps. He'd have to play it by ear.

Not that that negated his scheduling in any way, though. He'd still be pressed for time.

And remembering how Patsy had said Tommy reacted to strangers, getting them away before he ran out of time wasn't going to be easy.

Perhaps he could try seeing Tommy, too. Give the child a chance to get used to him. He might not cry as much then. Still, he couldn't do that unless he knew where Alia was, because she couldn't know what he was planning. Actually, he couldn't run into her, period. If she was Swiss-cheesed, she might not recognize him, if he was lucky, but if she mentioned him to Zoey, even in passing, things would get a whole lot worse. And—

"Hello."

The Doctor turned around, and his hearts sank. Alia. He didn't even need to look beneath Karen's guise to know it was her. Well, given what had happened at the Project, with the connections she'd made, he had suspected that he would run into her. Still, with all the potential things had to change, he had to be _very_ careful. But, oh, she must be Swiss-cheesed, because she didn't know who he was. That was a bit of good luck, at least. She looked a bit edgy, but then again, it was her first leap. He slowly stripped away Karen's aura to see Alia beneath. She looked more tense as herself, more afraid.

He couldn't change that. He couldn't even bring a smile to his face as he greeted her in return. "Hello, Alia." He waited, expecting her to say something, but she looked like she was struggling to place him. He couldn't have that. He'd have to distract her. Opting for a lighter tone, one that spoke more of curiosity than of questioning, he asked, "Where's Patsy at the moment?'

Alia looked caught off guard by his question, but she regained enough of it to give him a guarded answer. "In the yard."

Well, that didn't help. He knew that. He knew she was up in the grain, but he didn't know which pile. He could ask about her brother, then, since he wasn't with Alia. "And is—"

"She hasn't been gone long enough, as I'm sure you would know."

Oh, she definitely hadn't placed him, not if she was responding like that. All she knew was that he was from the Project, and she probably only knew that because he knew her name. He shook his head and voiced his intention, saying, "I mean to ask after Tommy." Perhaps she'd give him a clearer answer.

She didn't. "He's still safe at the moment," was her vague reply. Then, her tone a touch harsher, "If Zoey's asking, I've my plans to change that."

Well, he couldn't very well ask her outright about Tommy now. Chances were, he was in the house. And Alia's answer told him that it had been a while since Zoey had turned up, which meant she could be due for another little visit at any moment. And if she was, then Alia would be trying to figure out her plan, so that she wouldn't let Zoey—or Lothos—down. Zoey had probably taken great pleasure in reminding Alia of the consequences of failure. Pity Alia had listened too well to _his_ words; she'd evidently recalled their gist, even if she didn't recall who had said them. Or perhaps she'd only recalled their meaning, and hadn't been able to place why she was feeling the way she was, but had been confused enough to go along with it anyway. Whatever the case, it was enough to keep her listening to Zoey's words. She hadn't balked at her assignment this time, not like she had the first time around.

Still, he could see if he could find out exactly what Zoey had told Alia. He'd have to pretend that he knew already, of course, or Alia wouldn't tell him anything at all, but surely Zoey would have given her some impression of the significance of the task. If he could get Alia to tell him, he'd have a better idea of what to do, and how to go about it. Or at least he'd find out why disappearance was sufficient when death had been called for.

Alia had been quiet for a while, watching him warily, and he realized that she intended for him to reply. Easy enough; Zoey wasn't asking after the fates of the children, at least not of him, and not now, not to his knowledge. "She's not," the Doctor answered, "but she might, next time she sees you. Still. I've a poor memory, me. Remind me, these children, their deaths are to prevent them from going on and doing great and wonderful things, correct?"

"Perhaps, but for all I know, the intention is to break the parents." Alia didn't sound very confident. He couldn't put too much weight on that assertion, but he did have to consider it. He'd been thinking that the Project intended to take the futures away from the children. But that didn't need to be done now, here. There were plenty of opportunities for that. So perhaps Alia was right after all.

Though if she was, disappearances wouldn't hold the same as deaths, not if they were temporary. Or maybe they would. He may have spent a few years on Earth, and many more saving it, but that didn't mean he understood humans, not really. They were highly emotional creatures, quite unlike Time Lords, most of whom tried to distance themselves from that. He didn't care for that sort of attitude. He much preferred an emotional human to his own people.

Although that wasn't to say he didn't regret everything. He'd give almost anything to see them all again, the way he liked to remember them. Before.

But he had to keep his mind in the here and now. Alia was waiting for him to say something, and he wanted to ask her for her opinion. "Oh, right, should've thought of that," the Doctor said—rather amiably, if he did say so himself. It was important to keep up a cheerful appearance; it would throw Alia off his scent, if nothing else. "Still. Disappearances would count as the same, right?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," answered Alia, giving him a puzzled look. "May I ask why you are here?"

She was getting suspicious now. He couldn't keep this going for much longer. "Oh, just looking. Seeing how things worked out for you."

The response was swift and sharp. She was a bit bitter, then, with what she had to do. There was still hope. "I imagine that the information would be sufficient on your end." It was the sort of reply he'd been getting out of her before. It had a touch more fire, more criticism, but the answer was still carefully constructed, well thought out.

"Well, you would." The Doctor glanced around. He was getting edgy. The longer he stayed, the more likely Alia would connect him with something he couldn't be connected with. No wonder she'd had questions when he'd last talked to her. He had to hand it to her for getting him out of isolation, but he couldn't say she'd like her reward, seeing as he'd repaid her by cursing her to leaping. She wouldn't even be freed the first time she encountered Sam, although if she recalled any of what he told her, he had no doubt she'd wonder. She'd be strong enough, though, if all went well. She'd make the right choice, even in the face of pain. She'd remember the importance of balance, once Sam reminded her.

At least, that's what the records at Project Quantum Leap stated. And he was here to make sure they held. Best way to do that was to make sure whatever he'd done so far held, which included Alia's silence of this little visit. She'd dropped him enough clues to have him guess, but she couldn't ask him outright, or he'd be in a spot of trouble. He was fortunate that she hadn't asked him before. She had probably been sorely tempted to do so. "I would, ah, appreciate it if you didn't mention seeing me here. To me or anyone else."

She was silent for a few seconds, and he feared he'd said the wrong thing. He needed her to agree. He couldn't risk reconstructing more of the timeline around this error. The splicing wouldn't hold then, not with so many weaknesses. He hadn't helped matters before, doubling back as he had, but if he hadn't, he wouldn't have gotten out the first time, let alone out the second time, and he'd seen himself the first time, and he knew Thames had caught him fixing Lothos with the inhibitor and fiddling with the retrieval system. He was rather relying on the fact that Thames and Zoey didn't trust each other, and that if either of them tried getting anything out of Lothos, they'd be unsuccessful. He didn't need them piecing together the fact that he'd been unconscious in Alia's chamber at the same time that he was fixing things in the main control room.

He almost missed Alia's response, her soft-spoken promise to keep silent, but her words registered in the turmoil in his mind. He couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face. Perhaps things would work out after all. Perhaps his luck wasn't as spotty as he'd thought. "Brilliant," he announced happily. "Thank you."

He turned away from her then, heading back the way he'd come, towards the hill. He'd check in on Patsy. Alia's presence at the well had confirmed, in his mind, that that was how she was planning to dispose of Tommy. He wasn't entirely sure when—he'd glanced at the record of the leap but hadn't thought he had sufficient time to memorize it, seeing as he had other things to do, and he knew he had to correlate around the time that Thames would come in, which he'd judged to be shortly after Zoey had confronted Alia, which had been quite close to when he'd left Alia's chamber, since he'd gone once he'd heard Zoey heading there—but he doubted Zoey would have left it long to gloat to him. He could correlate the time differential and figure it out from there. He loved a bit of mental math. It kept him sharp.


	11. Chapter 11

The hardest thing, the Doctor thought, was keeping hidden. And waiting. Well, the two sort of went together, because he wouldn't have so much trouble waiting if he could wander about, and he couldn't wander about when he needed to keep hidden. And he _had_ to hide, because he knew Zoey would be about sometime, and the last thing he needed was for her to spot him.

He didn't fancy trying to explain that.

But he'd spent a good deal of time watching. Alia had broken the fence by the well and had opened the gate to let the cattle into the yard—and the nearby field. The Doctor wondered why she went to so much trouble to make everything look like a series of accidents. If she intended to murder the children, wouldn't it be simpler just to _do _that? Why keep Karen's reputation intact? If they were intending to play with her mental health, it would certainly be sufficient to make the poor woman think she'd murdered her children—or at least her youngest.

There was something here that he was missing.

That bothered him.

This was a targeted leap. Why was the Evil Leaper Project so interested in this family, at this time, anyway? What had happened, or what was supposed to happen, that they specifically wanted to prevent? He must be overlooking something, some detail that he'd thought inconsequential. Something human.

Perhaps they were relatives of someone back at the Project? Nah. Even they ought to realize the danger in that.

A grudge, then? Possible, but he wouldn't call it likely.

He just had to fit the facts together. A disappearance was suitable instead of a death. They were making sure everything looked like an accident. Or, rather, in the case of Patsy, they just had to make sure she wasn't found. But that was passive. Tommy's intended death was active. That suited the characteristics of the Project. But, if he'd read the situation correctly, Tommy's death wasn't the main reason that Alia was here. Was someone trying to disguise the real reason for the leap beneath a surface excuse that would satisfy the others?

Who picked the destinations of the leaps, anyway? Not Thames. Probably not even Zoey, as much as he was sure she'd love to take the credit for it. And he wasn't sure he could attribute it to Lothos so easily. There was someone else, someone higher up in the food chain, who made the call.

Too late to find out who that was now. He had to stick with the guessing game where he didn't have all the pieces.

"Kill the children, end their lives, end their influence, right? That'd be their reasoning?" The Doctor frowned. "They'd be wrong, though. The dead still impact the living. Quite a lot, in some cases. So maybe Alia's right, and they want to break the will of the parents. That would explain making it look like a tragic accident, perhaps, but that wouldn't be essential. And if they wanted it to look like an accident so there wasn't a lengthy investigation, they wouldn't be calling a couple of disappearances successful. Oh, think, think, think! What am I missing?"

Talking aloud—speaking his thoughts—helped him think, more often than not. But now was turning out to be a time that it didn't help, because he still couldn't come to any logical reason as to why they would call the leap a success.

Then again, it was the first leap. Standards could change.

And he wasn't likely to know unless he could figure out the motives of whoever was controlling the leap destinations, and he couldn't determine the motive with what he knew about this one leap. He was clever, but even he needed something to go on.

Something small. Something human. Something that had the same impact, be it from death or disappearance. Something where it was important to make the circumstances look accidental. Something where the reputation of the family had to be kept intact for everything to have the right effect.

So perhaps it didn't have to do with the family at all.

Perhaps it had to do with their friends.

Who was Patsy's friend again? Andy? Annie? Annie. Anne. Anna. Or any of the variations from there, like Annabelle, Anne-Marie, Anna-Mae…. Humans had far too many names with the same diminutive. For all he knew, the girl's name could be Anneliese. Or something really obscure, time and culture considered. Look at Peri. It was no wonder that she'd gone by that and not Perpugilliam. That was a mouthful.

Where was he? Oh, yes, right. Annie. Bother all that. Without a name, without a description, he couldn't figure her importance into history, the role she'd played, probably in accordance with Patsy and Tommy, or the Project wouldn't've targeted them. And even if he had both her full name and description, Annie's accomplishments, whatever they were, may not have been memorable enough for him. Actually, they probably weren't, not if the Evil Leaper Project could change them so easily. Because if they turned out to be something he knew about, he'd have to change them back. And then the leap wouldn't have been a success.

Little, human things. Sometimes he wondered what he missed, and how much, because however much they showed him, so much more passed by.

But he didn't have time to track the ripples now, tracing out what had changed and what hadn't. That was getting too far ahead of himself. By his calculations, it wouldn't be long until Alia took Tommy to the well. She'd be timing that, though, to make sure the deaths occurred at about the same time. Which made it curious why they hadn't questioned Patsy's disappearance, especially since they would have gone to check on her, just to be sure.

He couldn't be in two places at once. Well, yes, he could, but he'd done that a sight too often already, and he didn't dare cause more instability. He had enough trouble watching his back now; having to do that twice over would complicate matters more than necessary.

Well, if planning failed, there was always the option of improvisation. The Doctor started back up to the granaries, intent on finding out precisely where Patsy was playing. "Patricia," he called. "Patsy, where have you gone off to?"

He kept calling until he heard a giggle after he'd turned away. "Aw, I heard you," he said, adopting the sort of voice he generally reserved for the likes of K-9. "Where are you hiding, then, eh?" He tracked her down and resumed his normal tone of voice, saying, "Patsy, do you want to play a game with me?"

"If I can pick it."

Oh, right. That's generally how it went, wasn't it, with the children dictating the rules when they managed to convince someone who was older than themselves to play. Ah, well. Nothing he couldn't get around. "But then I wouldn't be able to teach you the wonderful game I've come up with."

"We can play it after we play hide-and-go-seek."

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck. Blimey, he'd forgotten how itchy grain dust was. It was a wonder Patsy could stand it. "Wouldn't you like to hear what it is first?"

"You can tell me after. You be it."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," the Doctor said, catching her arm. "Before you go rushing off, let me get a good look at you." He squinted at her, turning her face towards him. He brushed at a smudge on the side of her face. She looked like she was quite used to this and licked her fingers and tried to wipe it off.

"Better?" she asked. "It really doesn't matter. I'm going to be having a bath tonight anyway."

Unfortunately she wouldn't. Well, at least not at home. "You've got a few more spots," the Doctor said, carefully lifting his hands to her temples. "Right on either side of your head. And I'm sorry, Patsy, but it's for the best." He closed his eyes and concentrated, catching her as she slumped down. He'd come back for her after he'd gotten Tommy. Her state should be sufficient to fool Zoey and the handlink she carried—he wasn't about to make everything perfect, after all—but Alia would know if she looked.

But he was fairly confident she wouldn't. She hadn't seemed all that keen on the idea of what she had to do, even if she was still willing to do it.

Now, if only he could come up with something better than actually climbing down the well and trying to catch Tommy when he fell, he'd be whistling. But, unfortunately, any other options that had crossed his mind—such as rigging up a net of sorts, either by modifying a short-term stasis field or simply doing it the old-fashioned, tried-and-true way with a hammock or a blanket—weren't exactly feasible, given the circumstances and the time he had and how much he was willing to risk, which wasn't a lot at the moment.

He could get into the well without too much trouble, but he was a bit more worried about getting out.

Not that getting in wouldn't be tricky enough, seeing as he'd have to rig up the cover of the well so that it would close up the hole again once he was down there—without the entire thing falling apart first. Given its state, that would be an accomplishment. He'd have to try strengthening the lignin strands in the wood, just so that it would hold to take all the movement.

He checked his pockets to make sure he had the essentials—sonic screwdriver, rope, torch, Rubik's cube—and set off to the well. He didn't have much time left now, not by his reckoning, so he wasn't going to waste a moment. With any luck, he'd be off in the TARDIS within ten minutes, children in tow.

Providing Zoey didn't spot him first.

Especially since things weren't set yet and would change if she did, potentially creating a paradox. And a paradox on a terminating parallel, with him providing a link to an unstable continuous enantiomeric pocket, would not be easy to sort. He couldn't guarantee that it was something he could fix in time to complete the splicing before the parallel terminated. Three point six hours, relative time. It had been less than three hours by the time he'd left, hadn't it? Bit hard to remember, what with all the beatings he'd taken. But he'd easily had two hours, probably two and a half. If he converted that, it meant he had roughly….

The Doctor stopped, double-checking the calculations in his head. "Oh, I always seem to be cutting it close, don't I?" he muttered. Giving his head a shake, he took off at a run.

He liked cutting it close, living on the edge, pushing the envelope, toeing the line—usually. He worked well under pressure.

But he wouldn't have minded having a little more time, just this once.

* * *

The Doctor had been in the bottom of the old well for precisely four point eight two minutes, and had solved and subsequently scrambled the Rubik's cube no fewer than six times, when a chunk of rotting wood hit him on the head. He looked up at the pinprick of light visible. Well, at least he knew he wasn't alone any more. That gave him a bit of time to prepare.

Not that he had to really prepare. He was betting that, given that the well was roughly three point two feet in diameter, he could catch Tommy when Alia threw him down, preferably before the boy hit his head on something or managed to otherwise damage himself. And then he'd just keep him quiet until the coast was clear and he could nip out. He'd tied his rope to the old pump, so he had a way out, and he was fairly certain it would hold his weight again—it hadn't seemed in danger of giving out when he was coming down, at least. And when Alia, or Zoey, or whoever, went to check on Patsy, they'd assume she was either dead or near death. Then, he could nab her and head to the TARDIS with the two children and figure out his plan from there.

The flaw in his plan was that, if either Alia or Zoey happened to glance down the well, they'd spot him.

He really ought to figure out a way around that. What if he ever faced a time where he couldn't just walk around like he belonged and knew exactly what he was doing? What if he ever had to actually _hide_ from someone? That wasn't a dilemma he'd faced in this regeneration. Well, at least not for extended periods of time. Short periods, yes. That was frequent enough. But not extended periods.

Ah, well. He couldn't focus on that now. He'd keep it in the back of his mind, and then if the situation ever arose, he'd have a solution ready for him to call up when he needed it. Might still take a bit of thought to find it, but it would be there, and he was certain that it would be a brilliant idea.

The Doctor heard a particularly loud wail and looked up just in time to see Tommy fall through the wooden covering. By some miracle—it was awfully bright down there now—he managed to catch Tommy and silence him without trouble, and what with him staying in the shadows as best he could, pressing up against the wall and keeping a vigilant watch, he didn't think that they'd seen him. And that probably meant that they hadn't even checked—undoubtedly unusual for them, but this was the first run through for them, after all. They still had to perfect things.

Lucky for him.

When the coast looked clear, the Doctor settled the sleeping Tommy against him, slung up against his chest in a swath of cloth, and began his careful climb out of the well. He had the sonic screwdriver clenched between his teeth, just in case, but he figured he'd be able to break through the wood at the top without too much difficulty. Especially now that there was a great gaping hole in the other side of it.

He didn't think he had enough time to drop Tommy off in the TARDIS before picking up Patsy; they were searching for her now, and he had to move her before they found her—especially since they wouldn't be able to wake her when they found her. And if he came along just then, well, questions would be asked.

An awful lot of them.

Though, not as many as if he were caught carrying the children, both in an unconscious state that was just a little bit deeper than sleep.

The Doctor hesitated, weighing the probabilities against each other. He wouldn't be able to run when he had to carry both children, but he only had so much time. He needed to be in and out without being spotted—something that was becoming increasingly difficult to do, as there were an alarming number of people about now—but he needed to be quick. It all came down to time.

He always seemed to have a distinct lack of it when he followed the categories humans had divided it into.

He decided to drop Tommy off first anyway, since if he _was_ stopped and questioned, he'd be able to effectively and efficiently terminate the conversation. And it also made sure he wouldn't get any more bruises; he was tender enough as it was, and that climb in and out of the well hadn't exactly been a walk in the park. And he couldn't just drop Tommy off somewhere and pick him up on his way back to the TARDIS with Patsy because, judging by the way the search was going, the searchers would find the boy before he was through. So, pressed for time or not, he _was_ better off dropping the toddler off in the TARDIS, even if it was out of his way.

That done, the Doctor took off at a run for Patsy. By all rights, they should have found her by now. He'd been counting on Alia doing everything she could to keep them away, to keep them looking somewhere else first. From what he'd seen, she'd been doing that by insisting she'd last seen Patsy playing in another part of the yard, while pretending to double-check the house before searching the area around the granaries herself, with a certain degree of imagined desperation. Only, he couldn't see her now.

The Doctor stuck his head into the granary where Patsy lay and realized that he hadn't been counting on the fact that, by the time he reached little Patricia Edwards, Alia wouldn't be there any more.

He'd at least thought Lothos wouldn't pull her out before the disappearances or deaths of the children had been recorded.

Evidently they'd been a bit more eager to test out the retrieval system than he'd thought.

Pity he hadn't destroyed it sooner.

Karen had noticed him enter. He approached her slowly. "How is she?" he asked, nodding down at Patsy.

"What concern is it of yours?" Karen asked, sound almost bitter. He could see tears running in dirty tracks down her cheeks, but she was too busy cradling her child to wipe them away.

"I'm the Doctor. I want to help." He produced his stethoscope. "May I?"

Karen shook her head. "It's too late."

"Let me check that," the Doctor said. "You're panicking; you might have missed something."

"I don't even know who—"

"Please," the Doctor interrupted. "Let me try. If you're feeling useless, sign up for CPR training in, oh, seven years from now. But let me see if I can help her." He saw hope win out in Karen's face, and she moved aside. He got his first good look at Patricia and decided Karen hadn't simply been jumping to conclusions; her colouring wasn't that good, even considering the poor light.

It didn't take him very long to realize that that was because she wasn't breathing, and her heart wasn't pumping.

No wonder Zoey had deemed the mission a success. They hadn't been all that hasty in pulling Alia out after all.

The Doctor sprang into action, babbling away to explain himself before Karen pulled him away from her daughter, and ended with a biting question, demanding, "When did you find her?"

Karen seemed understandably flustered. "A minute or two ago, maybe three; I'm not certain. But I still don't understand—"

"Then trust me," the Doctor cut in. He broke into a grin as his efforts paid off. Karen looked between him to her daughter, hugging the latter fiercely before sending her outside for some fresh air. Karen started to thank him, but the Doctor held up his hands, saying, "You're going to have to let her come with me. I need to check her over. And, I'm afraid it might take a while."

"But she's fine. I'm not going to—"

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice," the Doctor interrupted. "I'm sorry, but you don't." The Doctor was less than pleased with how this was unfolding. Even if he did bring the children back, he wouldn't exactly be popular.

Unless he could jog Karen's memory.

"Listen to me, Karen. And look at me. Take a good, long look. Do you recognize me?"

She studied him for a moment before shaking her head. "No. And that's all the more reason to thank you and bid you goodbye."

"I'm the Doctor, Karen Edwards. You helped me before, and now I need to help you. But there's only one way that I can do that without changing things, and I'm fairly sure you aren't going to like it."

"You have helped me. You saved Patsy's life, and I thank you for that, but if you think she needs to be checked over, I would prefer that Dr. Teller be the one to do that."

"You don't trust me."

"I hardly know you."

"Oh, but that's not why you don't trust me, is it?" the Doctor pressed. "A good reason, but not the main one, is it? You just have a feeling. Tell me, Karen, what were you doing this morning?"

"I…I was watching the children, preparing lunch, starting the stew—"

"But that seems like a dream, doesn't it?"

"I'd be a fool to spend my dreams dreaming of my everyday life."

The Doctor shook my head. "Oh, no, because you've got what some people don't, Karen. A normal life. Well, you did. But then something touched you, and you can't get rid of its mark, can you?"

"What are you implying?" Karen asked sharply.

"You weren't here, Karen. Not this morning. Not the day before, or the day before that. You've been kept in a nightmare, Karen. And I was in it, don't you remember? Maybe not on the surface, but you do on some level, don't you? You can't trust the people from your nightmare. And that includes me, doesn't it?"

"Stop it." Karen shook her head. "Just…stop it. I need to check on my children."

"Where's Tommy?" the Doctor asked as she started to move away.

Karen didn't look at him when she answered. "In the house."

"The door's open."

"He's safe."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I know in my heart that he's safe," Karen cried, turning to look at the Doctor. "No matter what you would have me believe."

"If your heart tells you he's safe, what does your mind tell you?"

"That didn't happen," Karen said immediately. She started shaking her head, trying to deny its possibility. "It didn't. He's safe."

"You weren't the one to do it, you know. You were in the nightmare then." The Doctor went over to put a hand on Karen's arm. "Please. I know what you recall doesn't make any sense. It would hardly make much more sense if you recalled the entire thing, rather than just a vague impression of it all. But you have to trust me. Your nightmare was real. And the people in it were real. I only just escaped myself. But the thing is, they think they've won, those people. And we have to let them think that. But I can't let them win, not really. That's why I need to take Patricia with me, just for a spell. I'll keep her safe. Only, you'll have to tell them—everyone else—that she's gone, Karen. That she ran off, with Tommy. Though," the Doctor paused, reconsidering, "you'd never get through that, would you, telling a lie like that that's so against Patsy's nature. Tell the truth, then. That I took her. Just don't tell them that I intend to bring her back, with Tommy, safe and sound. Because I don't know how long I'll be gone, yet."

"I can't let you do that."

"They'll win if you don't."

Karen shook her head. "It doesn't matter. You're not taking Patsy or Tommy."

"You don't understand. I _have_ to. It's already been done. Their disappearances are recorded."

"What are you talking about?"

"History, Karen. Time. Look at me. Really look. How many years do you think I've seen, Karen Edwards? A few trifling decades? Not if you look below the surface. I know the future because I've been there. And so have you. Only you don't remember it. You don't want to, and they don't want you to, so you don't. So fight it. Fight against that. What do you remember?"

"It's—it's all the same," Karen insisted. "There's nothing that's…. There's no…." She kept shaking her head. "This is all…. It's nonsense. All of it."

"Then why aren't you crying out for help?" the Doctor challenged. "Your husband would be near enough to hear, wouldn't he, searching the yard for Patsy as he is? Or the hired hand? He might not understand what you're saying, but he'd hear you, wouldn't he, and come to check it out? And then you'd be able to apprehend me. Stop me." The Doctor levelled her with a steel gaze. "Tie me down." Very slowly, he finished with, "Lock me up," popping the 'p' as he did so.

Karen opened her mouth, but she couldn't find any words.

"I'd try to escape, of course," the Doctor continued at last. "Only, I might not succeed without help. I don't always manage on my own." Very carefully, he slipped out passed Karen, half-expecting her to stop him.

She didn't.

"How are you feeling, Patsy?" he asked gently.

"Funny," she replied. "My head feels funny." She wrinkled her nose. "Why's it feel funny?"

"Oh, I expected there're a number of reasons for that." And it wasn't all due to him; he'd induced a coma, not…. But that didn't matter now. She was fine.

He hoped.

"Remember my game?" he asked. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver. "This is going to tell me a bit about you, all right?" He turned it on and started to scan her, making sure she was, as he'd judged, just fine now.

"Is that like Mary Poppins's measuring tape?" Patsy asked when he'd finished. "Annie and I saw the film, and Mommy's read me _Mary Poppins_ and _Mary Poppins Comes Back _and we just finished _Mary Poppins Opens the Door_ again."

The Doctor's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, so your mother's been reading you stories about Mary Poppins, has she? That's a stroke of luck. But, no, this isn't exactly like that. But I'd still guess that you're imaginative and mischievous and partial to lemon drops, am I right?"

Patsy giggled. "Do you know Mary Poppins, then?"

"Good ol' Mary Poppins?" the Doctor asked, grinning brightly at her. "Course I do. Bit stern. Tad vain. Likes being mysterious. But a good heart; always means well, even if she doesn't like to show it."

"Are you like she is?"

"Not entirely, but in some ways, I suppose, yes. Only I don't come and go with the wind, and I'm much more partial to nonsense than she. But if you'd like, I'll show you my blue box. I keep everything I need in it."

"Like Mary Poppins's carpet bag?"

"Quite like it," the Doctor agreed. He glanced up at Karen. "Mind if I show her?"

"I wish you wouldn't," Karen replied softly, "but I don't think I can stop you." She sighed. "I think you're more like the Pied Piper than Mary Poppins, getting all the children to follow you and leading them away."

"I haven't played the recorder in ages," the Doctor muttered, but he didn't deny her allegations—or point out that they might have been a tad more applicable with some of the things he'd worn in the past, most notably during his sixth regeneration. At least he'd gotten some fashion sense since then. Instead of making further comments though, and delaying his departure even more, he took Patsy's hand and led her, albeit in a roundabout way, towards the TARDIS.

It was easier to let her believe in magic than to explain it all to her, and children accepted that sort of thing in stride.

At least, Patsy certainly did. After a delighted gasp of astonishment, she ran up the ramp and circled around the console. She was thrilled to see Tommy dozing in the pilot's seat, but seemed to be more curious about the console, enchanted by everything she saw. "Don't touch that!" the Doctor cried as she reached for the primary temporal regulator, which to her eyes must have looked all too much like a sparkling crystal ball to resist twirling and twisting and altogether twiddling with. She grinned at him, but drew her hand back.

He was going to have to watch her like a hawk.

And perhaps produce a seat belt or something and strap her and her brother down; he certainly didn't need them tumbling all across the floor, getting bumped and bruised as they banged up against the grating and the supports. He would like to return them to Karen without any broken bones, considering how she'd felt about his leaving.

"Try to make this a smooth ride, ol' girl," the Doctor said, patting the console as he prepared for departure. "It's only a small hop. Just a few months, nothing too noticeable, but long enough for the impact to be felt. Let's show off, shall we, and get it right? Good." When he was finished, he turned back to Patsy, who was holding her sleeping brother and staring at him with an air of expectation, as if she expected him to leap into the air and invite her up for a tea party on the ceiling, even if it wasn't his birthday—or was that part just in the movie and not the books? He never could keep it all straight. But, as much as he liked a good cup, now was not the time. "Ready?" he asked her. She nodded. "Holding on tightly?" She shifted one hand to clutch the armrest as if it were a life preserver. "All right, then, allons-y!" He threw the lever and they took off, Patsy's delighted laughter echoing off the walls of the TARDIS.

* * *

"We can't recover anything," Thames repeated to a glowering Zoey, having checked Lothos over for the third time. "And we can't see how he did it. Our records are wiped. It's like he was never even here."

"The cameras went offline, you mean," Zoey asserted coldly. "And you never noticed."

"It's more than just that," Thames reminded her. "Somehow, he managed to override the system, and however he did that, he buried his trail too deeply for us to follow. The last couple of weeks are completely gone. Audio, video—even bio records. _And_ the accounts of Alia's leaps. All he left was the tally, and that they were marked successful."

"And you can't call up information we found on him previously?"

"Zoey, sweetheart, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that's what I've been saying all along. I even ran his blood through the systems, trying to get a DNA match, and all I got was a bunch of garbled nonsense. I tried it with the chip, with the instruments from the Holding Chamber, even with what we'd swabbed off Alia—nothing. It's like he contaminated our systems. They don't recognize him as human, even. They don't recognize him as anything. It's not just contaminated, it's completely unidentifiable. That's how much he fooled with it all. It's as if he doesn't exist."

"But everything else is working perfectly?"

"As far as I can tell," Thames replied. "Lothos didn't flag anything."

"He didn't flag any of this, either," Zoey shot back, "after the wonderful Dr. Smith was through doing whatever he did to him."

"We've been checking things, but everything seems to be in order."

Zoey was silent for a moment. "We wouldn't happen to have enough information for a lock, would we?"

Thames shook his head. "We'd have to know where he was and set you in the general vicinity. He doesn't register himself. When he left here, he knew enough to make sure Lothos couldn't recognize him."

"So he tried to anticipate our actions," Zoey murmured. "Very well. Keep searching for anything unusual, any traces. Constantly. Even throughout all of Alia's leaps. We might just get lucky. Even if we fix on him at an earlier point, it will lead us to wherever he is now."

"Assuming we can trace it before the system crashes," mumbled Thames, looking as though he doubted the possibility.

Zoey shot him a warning look, but let the comment slide. "Send Alia to the accelerator chamber and get her on her next assignment. I'm not going to waste any more of my time waiting around here."

"You're the boss," Thames muttered as he complied. But she wasn't, really. He knew that. He just didn't know where she got her orders from. And frankly, he figured he was safer if he was ignorant of that particular piece of knowledge.

* * *

A/N: Of course I had to make the reference to Mary Poppins. Mary Poppins knows most everyone….


	12. Chapter 12

The Doctor checked the scanner and decided he'd better wear his coat. And, probably, see if he had _anything_ to wrap the children in. A blanket would do, if the TARDIS couldn't come up with any proper clothes. He wasn't sure what he had anymore. Still, he would be better off giving them something to wear over top of their light autumn clothes. There were only a few lazy flakes of snow—_real _snow, which was a rather pleasant change—drifting down now, from the looks of it, but the farmyard had certainly received a good deal more snow than London generally did, and it would almost certainly be colder.

Deciding he was better to bring Patsy with him than leave her alone in the console room to do untold damage, he bid her to come along. He was tempted to leave Tommy asleep, but thought it would perhaps occupy Patsy to look after him, so he woke the boy up and told Patsy to lead him along, warning her that they mustn't get separated.

He took one look at the grin on her face and the gleam in her eye and snatched her hand so she wouldn't wander off on purpose.

He had enough trouble with curious companions who did exactly that. Children were notoriously worse. He liked that sense of curiosity, for the most part, but—

"Is this all yours?"

"Yes," the Doctor replied, tugging Patsy gently past the doorway of the wardrobe room.

"Who do you play dress up with?"

The Doctor's mouth twitched into a small smile. His companions put on period dress far more than he ever did. He never had to push, just mention it, and off they'd go, delighted by the very prospect of it. Well, at least until they learned how hard it was to run in some of those costumes they'd selected, and that always seemed to happen sooner or later. They'd never do it again unless they happened to be in the right mood, or if he'd planned a trip that was meant to avoid running, if possible. But he did get it wrong, sometimes. More often than he'd care to admit, really. Although sometimes he had the right time and the wrong place, or the right place and the wrong time…or he was wrong on both counts—and he was sure his companions would say he was more often wrong than he was right. But if things went wrong, it was usually for a reason, and it never seemed to take him very long to find out what that reason was.

Patsy was still looking at him expectantly. He was rather surprised she hadn't run off. And then he realized he still had a good grip on her hand, and decided that that must be why. "People like you," he answered. "Beautiful, bright people like you who I meet. But we haven't time to look through everything; we need to find something very specific. You need a winter coat, young lady. And so does your brother. And it has to be of the right period. And if that fails, I've got a scarf or two around here that would be sufficient in wrapping you up, I'm sure."

It was curious that Patsy accepted his words without question. As soon as he'd said it, he almost regretted cautioning her about making sure whatever she found was of the right time period. All he would have had to do was tell her, 'no, that won't do; why don't they try looking over there?' and let that be that. She respected him enough to believe him, or at least that was the impression he'd gotten so far.

He hadn't really expected to find anything, but he had known he tended to accumulate things and then forget about them. He just hadn't expected to have accumulated quite that much. It hadn't taken Patsy ten minutes to find something for Tommy, and little longer to unearth a coat for herself. The Doctor fetched a couple pairs of mittens, one a bit larger than necessary, and toques and scarves for both of them.

He would have liked to get them to wash up, but he thought Karen might be a tad more inclined to believe him if they didn't.

He didn't fancy telling her—somehow he always seemed to leave on poorer terms than when he'd arrived, lately—but there were times, like now, when it was absolutely necessary. And she'd had one odd experience already, which made her more likely to accept what he was saying, which made it easier, which made it worthwhile. Particularly if it ensured that she didn't allow her husband to tie him up and ring the police, since although telling the truth and displaying the TARDIS had helped to prove his innocence in crimes before, particularly when he found himself accused of murder, telling the truth and acting on it had also gotten him banished from England and started the Torchwood Institute, which always seemed to be giving him trouble these days. And that had happened a lot more recently. At least for him, if not chronologically.

"Can we keep this all?" Patsy asked once they were back in the console room.

The Doctor pulled on his coat. "Course you can."

"But why do we need it? It's nice outside."

"It's snowing," the Doctor said. "It's winter now." Hopefully of the same year, but he trusted the TARDIS to have gotten it right. He'd been too busy to double-check, and couldn't be bothered now. Instead, he flung open the doors, grinning as he watched the eyes of the children grow even larger. "See?" he asked. "Now, I've got to have a bit of a chat with your mother, so if you wouldn't mind just playing a bit first. I know you don't have any boots or snow pants, but…." The Doctor trailed off and Patsy rushed passed him, Tommy in tow. "But I suppose that won't matter too much if you're only out for a few minutes. Blimey, I hope your mother will forgive me. She'll be saying I've let you catch your death of cold."

Closing the door of the TARDIS behind him, the Doctor trudged up the lane to the house. He hoped they were home. Bit hard to tell, since it looked like the middle of the day. But he knocked on the door anyhow, and when that didn't elicit an immediate response, he rang the bell.

He didn't recognize the man who opened the door, but he knew he was at the right house, so he assumed it was Karen's husband. "Hello," he said, grabbing the man's hand and giving it an enthusiastic shake. "I'm the Doctor. You'll be Harry Edwards, then?"

The man was startled, but managed to reply. "Yes, but I'm afraid I don't—"

"I'm a friend of Karen's," the Doctor cheerfully interrupted. "Haven't seen her in, oh, a few months now, I'd say." He craned his neck around to see inside. "Is she home?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry, come in." The Doctor did so, and Harry added, "Did Karen know you were coming?"

"Hm? Oh, she knew I'd turn up eventually. Didn't know when."

"And you aren't spending the Christmas holidays with your family?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Is it Christmas, then?" the Doctor exclaimed, grinning as he spun around to look at all the decorations, the snow drifting outside taking on a new meaning. "Brilliant." He took his hands out of his pockets and picked one of the ornaments up to examine it more closely. They weren't extravagant with their decorations, this family, at least not this year, but they'd put out enough to pretend to convey the Christmas spirit. And what he had now was something that he doubted would remain precisely where it was—within easy reach—once the family realized that their children were home again. "Ooh, it's old, this one," he said, referring to the ornament. "Family heirloom?"

"Yes," Harry allowed, "but—"

"Harry, who's at the door?" Karen wandered into the room, but stopped short at the sight of the Doctor.

"Hello," the Doctor greeted cheerfully. "I trust you remember me?" He replaced the ornament and went to shake her hand again.

She was gawking at him. No, not him—she was staring at his extended hand like it was something completely foreign to her. "Your hand," she managed, not taking her eyes off of it.

"What about it?" the Doctor asked, glancing down. It twinged a bit, now and then, but didn't particularly hurt. He'd put on a bit of cream to speed up the healing process. No need for Sam to ask questions when he finally got back there.

"You've still got it bandaged."

"So I do," the Doctor replied, realizing what she meant. Well, this was a good a way as any, he supposed.

"But it's been months," Karen protested. "Surely you didn't damage it again so quickly."

The Doctor gave her a quick smile. "Hasn't healed from the first time," he told her.

Her expression flickered into a frown. "Infection?" she asked, looking up at him. "I'd offer to look at it, but I would have thought, you being a doctor and all…."

The Doctor shook his head. "No. It hasn't had time. Karen, that's what I was trying to tell you. Before I left last time."

"Harry, be a dear and set the kettle boiling, won't you?" Karen asked hollowly, only sparing her husband a quick glance. Focussing on the Doctor, she said, "I think we'd better sit down."

"Oh, I'm not planning on being long. I was just…." The Doctor swallowed back the rest of his words. Perhaps a tiny explanation would be in order first. One slightly longer than the version he'd be planning to give her, that is.

Karen pulled him towards a chair in the living room before he had a chance to even wipe his shoes off, which were currently dripping over what looked like a recently cleaned carpet. "Are my children safe?" she asked quietly, as if she feared the worst.

"Well, they might be a bit chilled," the Doctor said, "seeing as I left them outside to get used to the time differential—the young are more sensitive to it, you see. Well, Tommy is. Patsy's old enough to withstand it. But he'll be fine. Just needs a moment or two of fresh air and will be right as rain. But I wasn't about to leave him out there alone, and I thought you would like to know that they were safe as soon as possible. It's only been a few months, right? I'm not over a year out, am I? I shouldn't be. I didn't _think_ I was." And he really oughtn't to be. Karen was showing now, after all, confirming the suspicion he'd had ages back when he'd first seen her, beneath Alia's aura, in the Holding Chamber. So either he had it right, or it had been much longer than he'd thought.

"Eleven weeks," Karen replied, looking relieved. "They weren't easy ones. I didn't think I'd see them again. No one did."

"But you—"

"I hoped," Karen cut in, "because it was all I could do." More quietly, she added, "And I'm glad you haven't come to dash them."

"But you want me to explain myself?" the Doctor guessed.

"If you can have an explanation for tearing my family apart, yes."

"Do you remember any of what happened?" the Doctor asked carefully.

"As if it were a dream," Karen answered. "And every day, it seems to slip away even more. Except for those horrid details. Pushing Tommy—"

"That wasn't you," the Doctor interrupted. "Do you remember what actually happened to you?"

"I was locked up." Karen took a deep breath. "And so were you. But that's just an impression, not a memory."

"It's enough," the Doctor said. "That's all I need, for you to know that something happened, that you weren't where you were before. As long as you believe that, you might hear me out." He took a careful breath and began, "You were caught in a time travel experiment, Karen. An evil one. They tried to change history by preventing it from ever happening. Or at least they did in this case. But that's not important. Thing is, Karen, I'm walking a fine line. I can't let them muck about in history, but they already have, and because of what I'm doing, I can't change what they've done. But in your case, they didn't succeed, originally, but I had to let them think they had, in case they checked, and—"

"You aren't making any sense."

"No, I never seem to, do I?" The Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. So much for a brief explanation. "I'm a Time Lord, Karen. And one of the things I do is keep history from being meddled with to the point that the future changes. Now, this experiment that you were caught in is changing things. Little things, but they're still changes. But there's another experiment that counters the effects of the one you found yourself in, so under ordinary circumstances, I don't need to step in. A balance is established."

"So you're Father Time rather than a relative of Mary Poppins or an admirer of the Pied Piper?" Karen asked, smiling slightly. "It may have been months, Doctor, but I remember those last moments clearly. All too well. I should have stopped you."

"I would have had to do it anyway," the Doctor explained. "You see, originally, Patsy was found and revived before it was too late. And then, when Alia—she's the woman who temporarily displaced you, and I should point out it's not entirely her fault before you start fancying her as an evil mastermind—leaped in, she was intended to make sure Patsy suffocated, at least from what I gather. To get rid of Tommy was to only sweeten the pot, I think. But that experiment, that project of theirs—I was at it, just like you were. Only, I was there by choice. I had to know what they were doing. And, yes, that did lead to me being locked up, as you remember, but the thing is, this first leap—it wasn't supposed to be successful. Alia was supposed to have balked at her task. Refused. Only, because I was there, changing things, she didn't. And so they declared it a success. And it can't be."

"Were you a bard in another life?" Karen laughed. "It's all fanciful nonsense."

"I'm not even finished yet," the Doctor said, looking offended. "Can't you at least let me finish?'

"I've hardly reason to," Karen answered, but she settled back into her chair. "Very well, then. Finish your tale. Why can't this task be declared a success?"

"Because, originally, it was supposed to have failed."

"I thought you said that, originally, this Alia had never displaced me."

"Well, yes," the Doctor allowed, "but in the _revised_ original history, the mission, if you will, failed. And then, thanks to me, history was revised again and it was declared successful. Thing is, I couldn't let that happen, but if I had deliberately tried to change something when I was there, I would have risked creating a paradox. And that's bad. But, you see, I knew something had happened, because Zoey—that's another one of the Project people; she likes to order people about, but she's not really in charge—had said that the mission was successful even though, when I looked, the deaths were recorded as disappearances instead. Now, far as I can tell, they didn't do any more checking, so I ought to be safe. Whatever they intended to happen has, more or less, happened—except their expected outcome has been modified."

"So nothing is as it should be?"

"Well, not _really_, but it's acceptable. Sufficient, I suppose."

"For what?"

The Doctor shrugged. "A bit of splicing? Best to think of it that way, I'd say. I'm sure you've had to splice bits of rope together before. It's the same general idea with time. It's not really something you can describe in English very well."

"You think I'm ignorant, don't you?" Karen asked. "You'd be right. You haven't made a whit of sense, going on as you have. But tell me this in plain English if you can: where have you kept my children all these months?"

"That's my point, Karen Edwards," the Doctor answered. "It hasn't been months, not for them. It hasn't even been an hour. They skipped over that time, and now they're here. Because I'm a time traveller, and I brought them. In my time machine. And I'm going to ask that you don't repeat that too loudly, because not everyone takes kindly to that." He saw her expression and let out an exasperated sigh. "You, of all people, ought to believe a bit of this. You've _experienced_ time travel. But don't listen to me if you don't want to. Look at the evidence. My hand. Your children's appearances. Their clothing. Patsy's face is still dirty from the dust; I never had time to wash her up properly. Though I expect the snow might have done that." There was a very brief pause. "It's been long enough, now. They can come in. Everything's stabilized. But I expect you'll want to get them some warm, dry clothing, maybe something hot for Patsy to drink, and a blanket or two for both of them."

Harry returned before Karen could reply, saying, "I've made some tea. Is that all right for you, or would you prefer something else, Dr.—?"

"Just the Doctor, and tea is just fine, thanks," the Doctor said, taking the offered cup. "I'll have to drink and run though. Things to do. Isn't that always the way?" He grinned at Karen. "But we've had a lovely conversation in the meantime."

"The Doctor," Karen said carefully, rising to her feet, "says that he has found Patsy and Tommy, Harry. That they're outside. Playing." She set the two steaming cups on the coffee table and clutched Harry's hand. "He says they're fine." She shot the Doctor a quick glance before adding, "But confused. They don't remember what happened. Any of it. But the Doctor tells me they've come to no lasting harm. He thought it best if they reacquaint themselves with things outside first, to get used to the fact that they've lost a few months of their lives. But children will be children, and I'm sure they will adapt well enough if we help them."

The Doctor had hardly touched his tea, but he thought it was high time to be going anyhow. He slipped out and headed towards the TARDIS, skirting the joyful reunion taking place. It had worked. He'd avoided inserting a null mutation, and now he was about ready to start the splicing. He hadn't missed anything, as far as he could tell. If he had, well, it wouldn't interfere with the splicing itself if it wasn't significant enough for him to detect.

Letting himself back into the TARDIS, the Doctor tossed his coat on one of the coral struts and started fiddling at the console, dematerializing from the temporal plane without setting coordinates. Once adrift in the Time Vortex, he started his final preparations. He'd be ready in time. He was still racing the clock, now, but soon, once he'd finished splicing the parallels, he'd be able to bend time back on itself, taking as little or as long as he liked in terms of how long he left Sam. Not that he could dally _too_ long, just in case his other self _was_ further along in the splintering process than he'd like, but, considering it had been close there for a while, things were going quite well for him.

* * *

It was a different matter at the Project.

"Lothos, _pull Alia out_!" Zoey yelled. "Pull her out _now_!" She kept jabbing at the handlink, furious. "Thames! What's going on?"

"It's the retrieval system!" came the astonished response. "It's malfunctioning."

"Well, _fix_ it."

"I'm _trying_!"

"Zoey, what's happening?" Alia asked, sounding worried. She had good reason to be. The leap was getting out of hand—it was supposed to be quick, in and out, a few clear shots with a gun.

The _others_ weren't supposed to have guns, not according to the records.

"We're working on it, darling," Zoey replied swiftly. "Just a little glitch."

"Can't you work any faster?" Alia squeaked, plastering herself against the shadowed wall.

"Step on it, Thames," Zoey hissed as Alia dodged another bullet, taking cover behind a barrel.

"Zoey—"

"Hush, Alia, darling. It'll only be a minute more."

"I don't know if I _have_ a minute!" Alia retorted, trying not to panic. "Get me out of here before you get me killed! It's all fine for you. You're a hologram. But those bullets will still kill _me_."

"Keep your voice down," was the only response Alia received.

"But—"

"Carry on like that," Zoey said sharply, "and you'll be dead before you can even blink."

"I think I've got something!" Thames's voice was clear, but Zoey didn't like the note in it. He wasn't certain. But he was willing to risk _her_ skin anyway, destroying her reputation if this didn't work. "We're going to pull Alia out of there." She didn't trust him, but she knew Lothos would be approving whatever he did. Not that Lothos was particularly reliable after Dr. Smith had been at him.

But even if it didn't work, it wasn't her life on the line. "Hold on tightly, darling," Zoey said, smiling slightly. "You're coming home." In anticipation, Zoey left the Imaging Chamber, not bothering to look back to see the red light flood Alia's figure.

The thing is, when Zoey returned to the main control room, Thames was at a loss. He'd been jabbing away at any number of buttons, but when she came in, he just stopped and looked at her. "Alia didn't come back," he informed Zoey simply.

"She's still there?" Thames shook his head, so Zoey continued, in a disgusted voice, "So you _lost_ her?" Zoey glared at Thames, demanding an excuse for his incompetence, however pitiful it may be.

"Not exactly," Thames replied. "She leaped out of there, all right. But she didn't come back to the Project. She's in—" and here he leaned over to double-check the location on one of Lothos's screens "—Silverbrook, Maryland. 1974. As a Carla Wessler, according to Lothos."

"So what's happened, Thames?" Zoey snapped. "Can't you get her out of there?"

Thames shrugged. "I was trying before you came in. Nothing. Nada. Zip. She's stuck there. Lothos predicts that she has to do something before she can leap."

"And then she'll leap back here?"

"Hopefully."

"What do you mean, _hopefully_? Don't we have any control over this?"

"Not a lot," Thames admitted. "Zoey, sweetheart, you've got to understand, whatever Dr. Smith did, he made sure it would stick. I'm working on something so that we can pull her out of whatever leap she's in, but I can't guarantee that I can bring her home. We can try guiding her leaps, but it's going to be hit-and-miss."

"Lovely. No guarantees." Zoey frowned. "Very well. I don't care how long we have to play this game, but we'll catch up with that Dr. Smith. Mark my words. And when we do, oh, it'll be a simply _delightful_ reunion."


	13. Chapter 13

The Doctor was always very careful when he did this sort of thing. It wasn't the first time he'd had to splice something, but he'd had help, then. Romana had been with him. She hadn't particularly approved, given that it was his idea and he didn't _exactly_ have _all_ the necessary odds and ends that the Time Lords— But he'd always thought she'd found his antics endearing enough, so she'd humoured him. Of course, back then, he hadn't had _quite_ so much hanging over his head. _That_ had just been a small thing. He'd only made what she'd deemed a foolish promise, that's all. And that was the only way he could carry it out. Next to this, it was hardly splicing at all. He'd just fit two tiny strands back together, two threads that would have, in the future, eventually converged anyway. Which was probably why Romana had let him do it. But he could remember her smile, when she saw the young girl to whom he'd made the promise find—

Still. He'd found a way to go about the splicing by himself, this time. Didn't matter that it wasn't supposed to be possible. It just came down to a bit of complex maths, that's all. The sort of calculations even Adric would have had a time doing. And he'd even claimed to figure out a way to get back through E-Space, and, from the brief glance he'd spared the work, the Doctor judged that it could very well have been possible. Only, he'd never gotten a chance to find out.

He wished that that had simply been because Adric had changed his mind about going home. Not—

But he couldn't lose focus. No, focus was essential. He had to pick out precisely the right strands and tie them together without gnarling things up and jumbling events together when they weren't supposed to be jumbled. He had to take hold of history, find where it had split apart, and lock it back together. He'd have to discard what changes he could, but most would stay. Even if he didn't particularly want them to.

Some things couldn't be changed.

Too much depended on them.

No matter how horrible they were.

Putting the two parallels together was difficult, yes, but it wasn't the hardest thing he had to do. He had more trouble with keeping them there. He _had_ done what he could, mentally, back at Project Quantum Leap, to prepare for the splicing. He knew his other self had intended to do it, but he hadn't been able to take the risk that it hadn't gotten done, for whatever reason. And it was just as well he _had_ done it, because his other self certainly didn't need to expend his energy in what was not only a dangerous but, considering his state, also a downright deadly manoeuvre.

Not that he'd had time to check it over, make sure he'd done everything properly. That meant that his other self had managed to speak with Sam shortly after they'd been cut off, and that the people at the Project had managed to sync up a new handlink and establish a lock on Sam shortly thereafter. He'd offered to help, but had been effectively refused, which is why he'd left it to his other self to bring up the idea of leaping. Not that it had taken long at all. He'd been taken from the Waiting Room and promptly sent to the quantum accelerator, almost before he'd made it back from examining the parallel. Thankfully he had. Considering what he was doing now, venturing out over the temporal planes, well…. Suffice to say that the leaping process wouldn't have been successful. At all.

But he _had_ had an awful headache upon settling on the other parallel, one that was much worse than anything he could put down to simply being sent through the Vortex without a time capsule. He'd put it down to passing through the parallels, but in all honesty, he wasn't so sure it was as simple as that, especially since the headache had been at least ten times worse than the one he'd had upon finding himself in the Waiting Room. Not that he'd have Sam believe any differently. Sam had been worried as it was. The way he'd looked at him—it made him think that his counterpart must have gotten worse in the brief time after they'd spoken.

A quick deterioration never boded well.

And if the headache _hadn't_ simply been from jumping parallels, then perhaps he hadn't imagined that grating, earlier, back when he was being held in isolation.

He couldn't dwell on that. Especially not now. Deliberately, the Doctor finished weaving the parallels together, trimming off a few extraneous events that were not meant to happen, yet had been significant enough to send out an offshoot of the main timeline. He never particularly liked that part of the splicing process, picking what was important and what was not, what to keep and what to trim. But, if nothing else, he needed the energy to use as a sealant, and he couldn't afford to cut corners.

He supposed it wasn't unlike pruning a tree in that aspect. He just needed to get about a quarter of it trimmed, and the rest would flourish.

Or at least it should.

But necessity didn't make the choice easier. He had to condemn about five percent more of those offshoots to the Void. Picking off the little ones was easy, but the larger ones, the ones that looked like they might try to gain enough to split off into a viable parallel world—picking which of those to cut was difficult. He examined them as closely as he could, but he still had only so much time.

That was more evident here, when he looked at everything this way. He had enough trouble trying to keep the ends from fraying, the deterioration from beginning, working its way backwards faster than he could mend it. He had to work quickly, methodically, and efficiently. It was as simple as that.

Because if he made a mistake, he wouldn't be around to fix it.

No one would, not when he was this far along.

The weak part of the timeline, the original terminating parallel, the one that had become a Type LXXVI, would terminate, destroying crucial parts of the stronger part of the timeline, and its existence would, well, end.

And a piece of the patchwork fabric that represented this universe, this world, would unravel, become undone at the seams, and fall apart, and the Void would move in to fill the gaps between the parallel worlds.

Something he would get to watch before he died, along with everyone else.

Of course, last time he'd thought that he'd be left watching all the death and destruction before his own time inevitably came, he'd still survived. It was bitter, but it was survival. He'd hated it, but now that he had it, he didn't want to give it up so easily.

The Doctor checked over the timeline once again, drawing on the bits and pieces he had of his other self, making sure everything was fitting together properly, precisely as it should. He looked closely, from every angle, searching for any sign of—

There. One little fraying thread, out of place but not something he could afford to trim. It looked too important to risk pulling out or cutting off. He'd have to leave it. It was the only anomaly he could find, which was good, except that since he'd found it at all, it meant that something was wrong. Well, possibly wrong. He _could_ be _very_ lucky, and it could just be a _good_ anomaly for once.

But if it wasn't, it wasn't the sort of thing that he could fix here. That needed a more delicate hand, whatever it was. He didn't want to look too closely to find out precisely what it was. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. He had a feeling that he did. And he wanted to be wrong. He just couldn't bring himself to check to be sure of that. He'd keep his hopes up, and after he'd checked in on Sam, he'd go back. He'd check up on himself. He'd see whether he was right, or whether he was wrong, and if he was too late or not.

He wouldn't have a chance if he didn't start sealing the parallels together now, though, cementing events and outcomes into their proper places once again. The Doctor took the energy he'd gathered and slowly started infusing it into the timeline, watching it fill the cracks and smooth over the rough spots. No turning back now. What's done was done. It was weaker than it had been originally, yes, and he'd have to watch it even more carefully now to make sure that history didn't change, because too large a change could crack it.

And he could only patch the same spot so many times before something changed that he _couldn't_ fix.

And the consequences of that….

He'd deal with that if it came to it. Perhaps by then he would have come up with a brilliant idea to fix it all. And, if not, he'd just have to wing it, executing whatever brilliant idea came into his head on the spot.

But however well he worked under pressure, he would prefer to do without facing those particular trying times. That would be a nasty set of circumstances to find himself in, no doubt about it.

* * *

The Doctor could hardly believe he'd managed it, but he had. In his brilliantly clever way, he'd managed it. Time was stable again. He wasn't racing the clock any more, not when it came to the time until the parallel terminated. No need for the constant conversions in his head, trying to find out if he was running out of time—he'd stitched it up, good and proper. And it was holding. The first few minutes were crucial, and they'd passed without cause for alarm.

The Doctor grinned. He loved it when it all worked out.

He could always just slip back and check, just to be certain. A quick trip, just to see that everything was well, that he hadn't nixed anything he shouldn't have during the splicing process. It certainly wouldn't do any harm.

And it might serve as a distraction about the knot he'd found, that he hadn't been able to undo, that knobbly little anomaly that poked out to defy the smoothed surface of which it was part.

Besides, he'd heard that Sam had told Martha about Project Quantum Leap, and, knowing Martha, everything would make sense at the time, but she'd have a million, billion questions later. Unless that just occurred when he tried to explain things to her, but he was fairly sure it wasn't. And if not, well, he was sure she'd appreciate getting a bit more insight into Sam, curious as she was. It might help her understand how much the little, unimportant things were, well, actually really important. Because localized changes, they might not have an impact on the big picture, but collectively they could certainly pack a punch. And they helped. Or they hurt. The change doesn't go _un_noticed, necessarily, but it is often ignored anyhow, lost in all the other events, and only the people closest to it feel its effects. And then it can spread, the helping or the hurting, to influence so much more.

Granted, Sam _had_ brushed up against things that his companions would hardly classify as 'localized events'—notably things such as JFK's assassination, a moment that he remembered clearly, even if he hadn't been in quite the right state of mind to pursue what he'd felt at the time, judging it as part of... Well, he'd judged it as part of the aftermath, if he was perfectly honest. He'd actively sought out disasters in those days. But after that shift he'd felt, where time had reorganized itself, he'd…. Well, he'd realized he could hardly stand seeing much more death and disaster and destruction, but he hadn't stopped seeking it out, oh no. He'd still thought if he exhausted himself, he could justify collapsing into those blissful states where he didn't remember everything that had happened. He'd just…tried to make sure it didn't touch so many people.

That's why he'd convinced that family, the Daniels, not to board the ship, detaining them past the departure time. Nice family, they were. But they were only one of many, and he couldn't save them all.

Still. A quick visit to October 6, 1957, was in order. At St. Louis, just outside a certain recording studio. He could get a copy of the TV show for Martha to watch. He'd have to tell her the story behind it, of course. He knew it after reading about Sam's leap, so that wouldn't be a problem. And it was a great example of human ingenuity, again, coupled with proof of their crippling limitations which, naturally, displayed the superiority of the TARDIS—something of which he could remind Martha the next time she started complaining about the roughness of their flights, of course. Although he had to admit, she was perhaps a _teensy_ bit justified after the last landing, but they'd hit turbulence, whether she believed him or not.

It didn't take him long to get there. Psychic paper in hand, the Doctor moseyed inside. A boy—well, young man—with thick-rimmed glasses and an argyle vest stopped him, politely asking who he was and what he was doing, but the Doctor didn't bother letting him finish. "John Smith," he said, displaying his psychic paper. "Safety inspector." He nodded towards one of the light stands. "Can you tell me the last time that was checked? Looks a bit rickety to me."

The young man blinked at him. "Uh, um, no, I'm sorry, sir. I'll find out right away. I'll—"

"No matter," the Doctor interrupted. "I'll check it now. You just run along and do whatever you were doing. Don't mind me."

"Yes, sir. I will, sir." But he stood there a moment longer, and the Doctor raised his eyebrows at him, prompting him to continue. "I'm sorry, sir, but we weren't advised—"

"Surprise inspection," the Doctor said, and left it at that. He made a show of checking the light stand and moving on, pretending to scrutinize his surroundings. Actually, it fascinated him. He enjoyed a good film, a nice program on the telly, now and then. Gave him a bit of a break, though they were no better at keeping him in suspense than most of the books he read. Still, the evolution of it was astounding, all things considered.

No one had questioned him after he'd spoken to the young man, although they kept shooting glances in his direction. He paid them no mind, electing instead to pretend he had free run of the place and wandered over to where they were actually filming the episode of _Time Patrol_. He kept to the shadows, not sure when Al would turn up, and listened intently as Moe Stein, in the guise of Captain Galaxy, spoke of the future being a brighter place. And—oh, yes, it _was_ Sam, right there, bumbling along, ignoring the director's frantic gestures to read the cue card. Good ol' Sam.

He cornered the man he'd pegged as the director after the filming. "Why were you so upset by that?" he asked, nodding to the now-empty stage.

"I don't know who you are," the man started, "but I don't have time for this."

"Inspector John Smith," the Doctor said, flashing his psychic paper again. "Here to…inspect things." The man frowned at the psychic paper and reached for it. The Doctor snapped it shut and pocketed it. "But, well, suppose you knew that," he continued. "Still, if you've time enough to talk to me about who I am, you've time enough to answer my question." When the man didn't respond immediately, the Doctor added, "Oh, come on, it's not that hard. Just a simple one, really."

"Moe Stein has to learn to follow the script," the man snapped.

"What, and encourage all that pre-emptive violence? We've got to blast them before they blast us? Go on like that and you'll find yourselves in the middle of a nuclear war before you can even blink." Not that that was going to happen any time soon, but the director didn't know that.

He also didn't believe it, or didn't care. "I don't have time to discuss it."

"Well, I will still need to get a copy of your show to analyze. And maybe the next one, just to compare. Yes, that will do. I'll—"

"I'm not permitting you to take _anything_," the director snarled. Considering balding, bespectacled men were sometimes characterized as calm and almost grandfatherly, this man certainly did not fit the bill.

The Doctor desperately tried to remember the man's name. Dan? Bill? Steve? It was a simple name, just one syllable…. "Ben Harris," the Doctor started, pleased that he'd gotten it right, judging by the look on the man's face, "I have authority, and I can use it, and, in fact, I _am_ using it, right now, to tell you to get me a copy of the episode you filmed today, and the next one, for analysis. I will send you the results when I'm finished."

"Analysis for _what_?" Ben Harris demanded.

"Oh, bit of everything. Can't tell you, can I? I just want to see if you're going to try to change anything in your next episode. Because even if you don't do it intentionally, if you're nervous about something, you'll do it unintentionally, and then I'll know, clear as day."

"Know what?"

He was suspicious, of course. But the Doctor was used to that sort of reception. "Everything I need to know," he replied simply. "Good writing, bad, acting, set, blocking, the lot of it. And everything in between those lines."

"The writing," came the snippy reply, "happens to be excellent."

"Well, I'm sure anyone as biased as you would say so," the Doctor agreed amiably, "but I'm afraid I'll have to decide for myself."

"If you—"

"Why not check the time?" the Doctor suggested. "You've got a Mr. Scrubo commercial to air in a minute or two, don't you? And I don't see your star." Sure enough, that got rid of him. The Doctor grinned. Worked every time. Now he could have a short chat with Moe Stein, whom he'd been curious about since reading the file of this leap on record at the Project.

The Doctor knocked on the door to the dressing room. When he didn't receive an answer, he called, "Moe Stein? May I speak with you for a moment?" Better not say he was the Doctor just yet, not until he had a chance to defend himself. He'd never get a word in if Moe thought he was there to assess him, perhaps in place of Dr. Sandler. If he remembered correctly, he'd met Moe Stein before, once, just briefly—but the encounter wasn't one Moe Stein would recall, and if he did, well, he wouldn't recognize the Doctor for who he was. The Doctor had simply congratulated him on his excellent performance in— "I have to confess," the Doctor added, still speaking to a silent room behind the closed door, "that I've been a bit of a fan of yours since I saw your performance in the Scottish play. It was positively brilliant."

The door creaked open, and Moe Stein looked him up and down. "That was a long time ago," was all he said.

The Doctor smiled. "Yes. But I still remember it. May I come in?"

"Why?"

"Just to have a bit of a chat," the Doctor replied. "Before you sneak off home, I mean. It won't be long." Moe let him in, and the Doctor grinned. "Thank you. Now, I'm curious, and if you don't mind my asking, where did you come up with your idea for your time machine? Or even," he added, picking up the gyrograph that was part of Captain Galaxy's costume, "the design for this?"

"Did Irene send you?" Moe demanded, looking like he was about to clam up and refuse to say another word. "Are you another one of those doctors?"

"I'm _the_ Doctor, yes, but I'm not one of _those_ doctors," the Doctor admitted. "I'm genuinely curious. Easy question first, then. Did you come up with this design yourself?" He held up the gyrograph again.

"No," Moe replied, still looking as if he had no idea what to make of the sudden interrogation, "but I travelled a lot in my day, and I read whenever I had the time—all sorts of odds and ends, I'd read. There was one story that caught my eye, back in 1945. Actually, one of my friends from Crown Point, Indiana, told me the story. It wasn't so strange on the surface, but Fred, he'd been a good friend of Tom Jarrett's father. He knew that boy hadn't even told a lie in his life, aside from those little fibs everyone finds themselves telling. But you don't want to listen to an old man's ramblings. You youngins are all impatient, so I won't make you suffer through all the details. You see, Tom had something in 1945 when he came back from overseas. But he'd claimed he'd never laid eyes on it before in his life, but here was everyone telling him he'd said it was some top secret, newfangled invention of the army. A prototype for something; can't remember what, if he'd ever said. It was a colourful thing, bright blocks of colour all put together. No one could make head or tail of it, so they eventually sent it away, and I don't know what happened to it after that. Archived somewhere, I expect, if it wasn't just thrown out. But they called it the Crown Point Mystery Object, just to try to get a bit of tourism, once they'd established that it hadn't been a top secret project of the army. Though the army was mighty interested in it anyhow. If anyone took it, it'd've been them."

"Is that so?" The Doctor had listened without interruption, wanting to know how much Moe would tell. "Interesting. Explains something. I'm assuming they had an article with a picture, then?"

Moe nodded. "Got it in my scrapbook back at my place. Looks about the same, except those prop people insisted on adding that spinning bit on the top. For show, they said."

"Right." The Doctor glanced at the clippings on the wall and then back at Moe. "And how did you figure out your idea for time travel? What's your theory?" He knew very well what the theory was, of course, but he wanted to know how Moe Stein had figured it out. Was it really just a coincidence? According to the records, Moe had nearly succeeded. He'd nearly leaped. Frankly, the Doctor was glad he hadn't, because he had a feeling that Moe wouldn't have managed to take care of quite as many variables as Sam had, and the outcome would have been…rather unpleasant.

"I studied it a long time," Moe answered. "And I think I finally figured it out." He went on to explain about the string, and tying its ends, and starting at the beginning.

No crumpling up of the ball, the Doctor noted. But then, Sam hadn't told him that yet. Moe did start to go on about his time machine, and he even offered to show it to him, and the Doctor thought about accepting, but he realized he couldn't. If he took up too much of Moe's time, things wouldn't work out like they ought to for Sam. Shame, that. He would've liked to have seen it.

"Tell me, Doctor—why are you so interested in an old man's experiments?"

The Doctor smiled at him. "Because they're wonderful," he responded simply. He stood up then, adding, "But I'd best not keep you. Thank you. I'd wondered what had happened to that handlink after I'd read about it, but I hadn't had the time to check. Now I don't need to. But," the Doctor added, trying to distract Moe from what he'd just blabbered on about, "you just remember, through this whole mess with your daughter wanting to get you institutionalized, why you started in the first place. Why it's all so important. And when the time's right, tell her that. She'll understand." He left the room before Moe could ask any more questions.

He didn't return to the studio until after it was nearly over. He watched the end of the latest episode being filmed, absently picking the bandage off his hand, which had healed, and listened as Captain Galaxy read one final letter. Knowing Al was there for that, he kept well back, but he watched Sam's face, hidden under Kenny Sharp's aura, for the moment the letter was opened and realization struck as Moe began explaining the string theory of time travel to little Sam Beckett of Elkridge, Indiana. He watched carefully as Sam leaped out, silently congratulating the people at Project Quantum Leap for such a seamless exchange. He doubted anyone else had noticed. Even if they'd been looking right at Sam, they probably wouldn't have noticed unless they knew precisely what to look for.

"Do you have the footage I requested?" the Doctor asked afterwards, coming up to Ben Harris.

The man jumped, spinning around to face him. "How did you get in here?" he demanded. "I left precise orders that you were _not_ to be—"

"I can be persuasive," the Doctor interrupted. "And stubborn. I'm not leaving until I have copies of the two episodes that I requested for my analysis. I'll be sure to send you a full report when I'm through."

"I am not about to—"

"No? Then I suppose I'll have to find someone who will. Bear that in mind, Mr. Harris, when you have to face up to your superiors and have to tell them that you refused to cooperate."

"If you think for one moment that I'm going to—"

"See, without your Captain Galaxy," the Doctor continued, talking over Ben Harris's protests, "it's going to be a bit questionable as to whether they're going to even think about letting you finish up this season and stay on the air, or if they're just going to pull the plug on you now. And without a show to write for, Mr. Harris, how valuable do you think you'll be? Now, if I had a few samples of your work, I could pinpoint your attributes and showcase them for you. You know, to silence those who'll say that the children's show was pulled because of the horrible writing. Because that sort of talk always persists, even if there's evidence to the contrary. Something you're more than aware of, I'm sure."

The Doctor could hardly keep from grinning as he faced the daggers Ben Harris was glaring at him. "Very well," the writer finally spat. "I'll see to it that you get what you need."

"Now, if you would," the Doctor said. "I'm in a bit of a rush." He wasn't, really, not anymore, or at least not terribly, but he wasn't about to give the man in front of him a chance to change his mind…or make some phone calls.

The Doctor still had a rather lengthy wait—it had gotten to the point where he'd fished a cricket ball out of his pocket and began playing with it. He hadn't known that that was in his pocket until he'd gone looking, but apparently some time in the future he thought he'd have need of a cricket ball, so he'd placed one in his pocket. He doubted that his future self had placed it in his pocket with the eventual intention of combating boredom, but he resolved to track it down and put it in his own pocket, anyhow. He was still a good shot, and he never knew when he'd be in need of it. Of course, he used that as an excuse for nearly everything else he carried in his pockets, the odds and ends that tended to accumulate through his almost mindless picking up and pocketing of every day items—to the point where, he was sure, one of his companions would jokingly call him a kleptomaniac. But he rarely picked up anything that was of value to anyone else, so that wasn't really stealing, was it, if no one wanted it?

"Thank you," the Doctor said when he was at last presented with the material he'd requested. "And these are the two episodes which I asked for? Recent work is best. And—oh, what's this?" he asked, pulling at a wad of papers and flipping through them.

"The original script," came the scathing reply, "so that you know what was said at the end _wasn't_ what I wrote."

"Oh, but you don't discourage improvisation, do you?" the Doctor asked.

Ben Harris evidently recalled the conversation he'd had with the Doctor the first time he'd met him. "You wanted to know the quality of my writing," he snapped. "That's the only way you're going to get it. By going by the original script."

"And if I'm of the opinion that people would be more accepting of the improvised changes?"

Apparently that question wasn't going to be dignified with an answer. "I'll expect your report by Monday."

"Oh, but you can't rush these things," the Doctor cautioned. "You won't like it at all if it's rushed." He, of course, had no intention of writing up any report. Why waste his time doing _paperwork_ when there were so many other things in the universe he could be doing? "In fact, it may be quite a wait, when you consider how long the screening process will take after the initial analysis, and—" The Doctor stopped. "Well, I expect you know the process, don't you, and all the red tape that follows?"

Ben Harris threw up his hands, frustrated. "Give me your contact information."

"Can't do that, sorry," the Doctor said. "And, before you ask, I'm not affiliated with any company. Bit of a freelancer."

"Then _who_—"

"Thanks anyhow," the Doctor interrupted, sensing he'd better get out of there before the tapes were confiscated. And he managed it, too, leaving the dumbfounded man behind as he slipped away to the TARDIS, cargo in hand. He figured he'd have to drop it off at an earlier time, sneak it into his TARDIS when no one else, himself included, was looking. He couldn't go too far back, or he'd risk finding it too early, so his best bet was to nip in and hide it in one of the TARDIS roundels shortly after he'd landed near those standing stones in Merivale in the first place. He'd been too preoccupied with the fact that a couple of Tryl'c'ark were causing trouble, not to mention the rough landing and Martha's complaints and his realization that they weren't at the Gate of Alguarzi like he'd expected, to sense himself in the area.

It was his best bet, anyway.

It didn't take him long. He stayed far enough back from the route they'd taken chasing after the Tryl'c'ark so that he wouldn't be noticed, and it only took a minute or two to nip into the TARDIS, explain the situation to her, and hide his cargo. Martha would appreciate it, he was sure. And he'd been right in his assessment of the splicing; it had worked, and it would hold. But he hadn't really expected to find out about the handlink that Al Calavicci had left in 1945. That was an added bonus. He'd only wanted to speak to Moe Stein about his time travel experiment, since he hadn't had any indication that he'd be pursuing that the first time he'd seen him, however many regenerations ago that was now, and in the end the details had remained a mystery. He didn't mind, really. Well, not too much.

The Doctor slipped out of his TARDIS and back to his counterpart's TARDIS. He wasn't completely finished, not yet. He still needed to check on his future self, to see how he'd held up after the leap. He'd insisted that he would be fine, but the Doctor wasn't so sure. His other self had been getting glimpses of knowledge through the cracks the splintering had opened, and that was never a good sign. But he'd insisted that he was stable enough to leap. And the Doctor hadn't exactly had time to argue, because by the time his other self had brought it up, the time he had before the circuits overloaded on the handlink was limited. Actually, that entire portion of the conversation had only lasted about thirty seconds. Well, twenty-seven. And he could talk quickly, yes, but that still hadn't been enough time to have a proper argument, especially against himself, when he knew all the tricks he was inclined to use in arguments.

And he was the one at the disadvantage, being younger, although it wasn't as noticeable as when he was arguing with himself from a past regeneration.

Still. Before he could do that, before he could find out how things went, he'd have to check in on Sam. A few fine adjustments to the coordinates and a far smoother landing than the first time he'd landed there later, the Doctor ended up just slightly to the left of where he'd taken off. If he'd calculated correctly, he'd only been gone two minutes from Sam's perspective. And, well, if he'd miscalculated, he wouldn't be far off. Sam was still there, after all, judging by the scanner. Grinning, the Doctor stuck his head out the door of the TARDIS and looked at Sam. "Well?" he asked, the grin spreading even further across his face. "What's my time?"

_Fin_

* * *

A/N: So, I hope everyone enjoyed this story and that you will take the time to tell me your thoughts on it. A nice little expansion on that hidden story in _Splintering_, I think, for you now know why I didn't just write it into that story—it wasn't a story I could tell in a chapter or two, although I will admit it got a little out of hand, as I'd never actually intended, when I'd been thinking over how to make this work, to have the Doctor go back to Alia's first leap. Ah, well; I think it worked out just fine. Also, I'd like to acknowledge Questfan and Elvaro and thank them profusely for their kind reviews; I always appreciate comments and suggestions (even if I do choose to ignore the latter on occasion….). Thanks for reading.


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